Seventh Circle
by Tenebrielle
Summary: Featuring Kirk, Spock, Bones, and Chekov. An away mission gone horribly wrong lands Kirk and the team in a mysterious prison. Can Kirk figure out how to save them all before it is too late? Rated T, full warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

_**Warnings: Rated T, (or PG-13 if we go by movie ratings) for alluded torture, some violence, and minor cursing.**_ _ I'm putting this up at the top because I don't want to catch anyone by surprise. You have been warned.  
_

_A/N: Many thanks to the talented **Lina-Baggins** for her awesome beta read, and I hope you all enjoy the story.  
_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. _ :(

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 1

They take Chekov first.

Kirk is not surprised. His first officer would say the choice was logical. The Russian is obviously the youngest of the captives. He will likely provoke the strongest emotional reactions in his comrades as they are forced to listen as he is tortured. The rage his comrades feel on his behalf will make them careless. They could possibly drop useful bits of information in their vain efforts to put an end to the boy's suffering. Made to listen to his screams, fearful anticipation of their own torture will cloud their judgment and their Starfleet ideals. The instinct for self-preservation will kick in, leading to cooperation to avoid pain. Despair sets in after his whimpering body is finally returned to their cell. Or as it is lifelessly laid out on a cold metal slab.

Understanding the choice does not make it any easier for Kirk to watch the Russian boy's huge hazel eyes widen in terror as they drag him away.

It takes two of them and a phaser to hold Kirk back. Big and Ugly– two huge brutes with no sense of personal space -- have his muscular arms in an unyielding vice grip, but that doesn't stop Jim Kirk from trying to wrestle free. He thrashes vainly in their grip, trying to yell words of encouragement to his youngest officer until a third (Dopey, Kirk decides) sticks a phaser in his face. Another (Runty) holds a phaser on Giacomo and McCoy. Spock is still unconscious, green blood trickling from his temple. McCoy crouches next to him, his face even grimmer than usual.

Ugly grunts something to Dopey, who smashes his phaser into Kirk's face and socks Kirk in the gut with his heavy fist. Big gives a reeling Kirk a tremendous shove into Giacomo, who crashes into the slimy stone wall. The three back out of the cell, covered by Runty and his phaser. Kirk recovers and his hands slam into the cold metal bars, shaking them with all his might. He roars vainly after their captors.

Giacomo is cowering in a corner, muttering Hail Marys. Kirk, to whom a Hail Mary will never be more than a play in football, resists the urge to snap at him. He doesn't have time for panicked rookie bullshit. McCoy has his fingers on Spock's wrist and his eyes on his chrono, cursing softly under his breath. Kirk lets go of the bars and begins pacing like a caged animal. His face throbs.

Chekov's name, rank, and serial number pipe from a nearby chamber in a reedy, terrified voice. Kirk freezes; McCoy and Giacomo look up. Muffled voices. Scuffling. Several voices, one higher than the others, mingle in the dank stone corridor before reaching their straining ears.

The voices floating in from the adjoining chamber take on a different tone. Softer, more reasonable, almost pleading tones. Then Chekov's reedy voice, clear as if he were standing right next to the little knot of officers.

"Nyet! I weel not!"

Murmurs. A pause. Then Chekov's accented voice again, rising even higher in growing panic.

"Chekov, Pavel Andreievich. Ensign--"

Kirk slumps a little.

More murmurs.

"No, please. Vait…please, va-- no! NO! NO!"

Chekov's protests trail off into an agonized scream. McCoy closes his eyes briefly before turning his attention back to the injured Vulcan. Giacomo's eyes are rolling fearfully in his sweaty face; he cringes visibly at every cry. Furious hot blood roars in Kirk's ears, nearly loud enough to drown out his navigator's shrieks.

_They are torturing a member of his crew!_

The unmistakable sound of an object hitting flesh, followed by a quickly stifled wail. At least the kid is still fighting. Red-hot pokers are pushing Kirk's eyes out of his skull. He wants to fight, he wants to rip every single one of those _bastards_ limb from limb. Kirk's bruised hands close again on the impossibly strong metal of the cell door. _I don't believe in no-win situations!_ Enraged at his own impotency, he shakes it again with all his might.

_They are torturing a member of his crew!_

Kirk shouts down the dank corridor again, alternating between encouragement for Chekov, oaths against their captors, and pleas for them to take him, Jim Kirk, and torment him instead. Kirk feels like he could burst from white-hot hate.

_They are torturing a member of his crew!_

"Jim!"

McCoy's familiar furious hiss of his name finally bores its way past Chekov's screams and into Kirk's consciousness. Kirk turns to face the doctor, forcing himself to listen to his friend's words. "Spock's coming 'round now."

"He'll be all right?" Kirk asks distractedly. He can't get Chekov's terrified face out of his head.

"Yeah. He took a nasty bump to the head, but the cut's not bad," McCoy shrugged. "Probably has a hell of a headache."

"An accurate assessment, Doctor."

"Nice to have you back, Mr. Spock. Now, about getting out of this cell…"

Kirk draws formality around himself like a cloak as he goes through the motions of captaincy. He ignores McCoy's worried looks, and Spock's less obvious --but definite-- concern.

_The y are torturing a member of his crew!_

They search the cell fruitlessly for any means of escape, hampered by the failing light. By the time they have finished, the darkness is nearly complete. They took Giacomo an hour ago. Kirk's head is in his hands. In the dark he can finally drop the optimism and bravado required by his rank. He can finally give into that nagging little voice at the back of his mind that tells him what a fool he's been.

Chekov is crying in Russian now.

Bones is dozing lightly. Kirk can hear his heavy, even breathing. He eyes him enviously. His first officer is still awake; Kirk can see Spock's eyes glimmering through the darkness, illuminated by the faint light cast by the display of McCoy's chrono.

"Captain, may I suggest you follow Dr. McCoy's example and get some rest? I am quite capable of taking watch alone."

Kirk cocks his head wearily. "No thanks."

The barest trace of concern colors Spock's voice as he replies. "Jim…you are exhausted and require rest so you can continue to function under the present circumstances—"

They know each other well enough now that it doesn't sound weird when Spock calls him "Jim." But Kirk cuts him off.

"Spock. Those bastards are torturing two members of my crew. _My crew_," he emphasizes the last, repeated phrase the way most people would say 'my family'. "Do you really think I can sleep now?"

A dull ache forms in Kirk's chest as he vocalizes the thought that has been tormenting him for the past several hours. The Vulcan, perhaps guessing his feelings, says nothing. He leans back against the sweating stone wall. There is absolutely nothing that Kirk hates more than being helpless. He _hates_ it. But until the first cold light of dawn reaches down into their cell—

"Captain."

Spock's warning is unnecessary; Kirk can hear the scuffling footsteps as well. He elbows Bones and springs to his feet. The Vulcan is instantly at Kirk's side. Faint light appears down the corridor. Three shadows approach, two supporting a third. Behind him, he can hear McCoy getting to his feet.

"What do you want from us?" he shouts at the approaching shadows.

In the dim light spilling from a door down the corridor, Kirk can see Ugly and Runty are back, half-supporting, half-dragging Ensign Chekov. Runty wrenches the cell door open, and before any of them can react, Ugly propels the boy bodily into the cell. Kirk grabs for him before he can hit the unyielding floor. The door slams shut behind him.

Kirk's heart pounds in his throat. "Chekov?" he asks hesitantly_._

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Don't worry, there will be more! Please review! :)  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: My apologies for not updating sooner. Life is crazy for numerous reasons I shall not go into here! Thank you very very much for all the lovely reviews (please keep them coming!) and to all of you who put this story on alert! I was really excited by the enthusiastic reception to this story! _

_Many thanks to the lovely **Lina-Baggins** for the excellent beta read!  
_

_All previous warnings and disclaimers apply here as well. Without further ado..._

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 2

_Kirk's heart pounds in his throat. "Chekov?" he asks hesitantly._

Chekov's knees abruptly buckle and he collapses into Kirk's arms. _Oh god no…_ An invisible hand squeezes the remaining traces of hot blood from Kirk's veins, replacing it with ice and adrenaline. He shoots an alarmed look at the doctor, who has replaced Spock at his elbow.

"Easy now," McCoy mutters as Kirk sinks slowly to the floor under Chekov's dead weight. His drawl is steady as ever, though now it is threaded with cold steel. "Hold him up a little so I can get a look at him, Jim."

Kirk cradles the boy against his shoulder and chest as gently as he can. Chekov's head lolls limply against his shoulder. Chills race down Kirk's spine as the damp, unruly curls brush against the bare skin of his neck. A nasty looking gash-- a jagged black line in the dim greenish light-- splits the paper-white skin of the boy's forehead.

"Chekov?" Kirk calls, more urgently than before. McCoy fumbles in the dark for the boy's bony wrist. Spock hovers nearby, his eyes and silver Starfleet insignia glimmering faintly.

"Damn it!" McCoy swears under his breath. Kirk watches in horror as he releases the boy's wrist and places two fingers anxiously to his neck instead.

"C'mon kid," Kirk pleads, trying to keep his rising panic out of his voice. "_Pavel?_"

The curly head lifts ever so slightly, swollen hazel eyes fluttering open.

"K-Keptin," Pavel Chekov gasps.

_The kid is alive._ Kirk closes his eyes for a moment as relief washes over him and he lets out a breath he was not aware he was holding. He silently thanks every deity he can think of that he will not be adding Chekov's death to the others on his conscience today.

McCoy attempts to examine him by the feeble light of his chrono before cursing it roundly and giving up. His hands become his eyes as practiced fingers trace Chekov's limbs for blood or injury, eliciting several sharp gasps and a few cries of pain from the ensign. Kirk watches as the doctor's shoulders tense in barely-suppressed anger and thinks – not for the first time – that he is glad he is not his Chief Medical Officer.

"Keptin," Chekov gasps again. His thin voice is heart-wrenchingly hoarse. He is shivering now, and his head keeps lolling drunkenly against Kirk's chest as if he is fighting to stay conscious. Kirk holds him closer, trying to use his own body heat to warm the kid up.

"Save it, Ensign," McCoy growls. He has already stripped out of his blue uniform tunic and wraps it over Chekov's skinny torso. "Don't you pass out on me, now."

Worried, Kirk looks over the boy's head towards McCoy. Bones sighs. "I don't know, Jim. I don't feel any major injuries. But for all I know, he could be bleeding internally. I need light to examine him properly. Well, properly as we're gonna get without a tricorder."

_Damn_. It is decisions like the one currently facing him that make Kirk hate his own authority. They've been thrown in prison for no discernable reason. Nobody's heard from Lt. Giacomo for hours. At least one, probably two, of his officers have been tortured. Another one of them could be taken at any time. Kirk desperately needs information...and fast.

Yet the only source of information is a battered teenager who just wants to fall asleep and escape his still-hellish reality. The last thing Kirk wants to do is cause the poor kid any more pain, which making him relive the past several hours would undoubtedly do. But can Kirk risk the safety of the group? _Shit._ _He should be flirting with cheerleaders, not fighting for his life._ Heart sinking, Kirk glances up at Spock for approval and receives the faintest of nods. The Vulcan has followed his thinking; the decision is logical. _But it still sucks._ McCoy looks from Kirk to Spock to Chekov, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Is he able to answer questions?" Kirk asks, forcing his voice to remain even but refusing to meet the doctor's eyes. He doesn't want Bones to see the indecision still reflected within his vivid eyes.

"Would you be?" McCoy retorts, an edge creeping into his _I'm-the-doctor-shut-up-and-let-me-doctor_ tone. Chekov is beginning to nod dangerously again. "Hey, none of that, Ensign!"

"We need answers, Bones."

"Jim, he's barely _conscious_!" the doctor snarls. "Hasn't he been through _enough_ for one night?"

McCoy has touched a nerve. Kirk glares at him over Chekov's head, his icy blue eyes eerily pale in the green light. "If we're going to get out of this alive, _Doctor_," he snaps back, wielding his friend's title like a slap to the face, "I need to know what _they_ want from _us_."

Jim regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. Pulling rank on his best friend feels about as fair as a sucker-punch to the gut. There is a small glint of reflected light quickly snuffed out with a whisper of fabric as Spock straightens and clasps his hands behind his back. The Vulcan thankfully keeps his opinions to himself as McCoy huffs mutinously.

"Yes…_sir_."

_Sorry, kid._ "Ensign Chekov," Kirk says sharply, throwing the weight of his rank behind the words.

Chekov's curly head snaps up instinctively at the sound of an order. "Yes…Keptin?" He still sounds dazed, but slightly more lucid than before. At least he's speaking Standard.

Kirk avoids Bones' gaze. "Before, did you see Giacomo? At all?"

"Zhe anthropologeest?" Chekov answers slowly, grimacing. "Da…yes, ser. For a moment. He vas…it vas wery bad, ser."

Kirk's heart sinks as he exchanges looks with Spock. Chekov's skinny body begins to tremble again. Kirk continues to ignore McCoy's glower and puts a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Ensign, but I need to know what happened," he says quietly. "What did they want?"

"Vant?" A tinge of surprise colors the boy's heavily-accented voice. "I do not understand, ser."

The little hairs on the back of Kirk's neck prickle and begin to stand on end. Even in the impossible light, Kirk can see Spock's left eyebrow creep skyward.

_Christ, this was hard._ "They didn't ask you any questions?"

"No, Keptin." His voice is growing weaker.

"None? Nothing at all? Think, Ensign," Kirk urges, a fresh wave of self-loathing washing over him as he pushes Chekov. "It's important."

"Jim, really—!"

"Doctor." Spock's tone leaves no room for argument. McCoy scowls.

Kirk can feel the boy's head move against his chest; imagines the large hazel eyes looking up at him mournfully. "No, ser. Zhey…zhey just…hurt me, ser."

Chekov's simple description of being tortured into near incoherency makes Kirk feel sick to his stomach. "You're sure?" Kirk asks, gritting his teeth against his rising temper.

"No questions...ser." Chekov's voice is nearly inaudible now, even though he is mere centimeters from Kirk's ear. "Keptin…I'm...sorry."

He falls silent, wide eyes fluttering shut. "Chekov?" Kirk asks, prodding him as gently as he can. "Pavel?"

But the boy does not stir. Stunned silence descends over the small group of officers as they digest Chekov's words. McCoy finally sums up what they are all thinking.

"What the_ hell_ is going on?"


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Egads! Apologies, dear readers, for the delay in posting. I'm currently coordinating a 1,000 mile move for my new job (yay) and life has been more than hectic! However, you do get a slightly longer chapter as a result._

_Many thanks to the wonderful **Lina-Baggins** for the beta read and excellent suggestions. I've tampered with it, so any errors are my own fault._

_Disclaimers and warnings of the previous chapters all apply here.  
_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 3

"I just don't get it, why bother to torture someone if you're not even gonna ask any questions?"

"I agree; it is illogical. The effort required to capture and hold five valuable Starfleet officers implies an advanced degree of organization, and thus some greater purpose."

"Want to hazard a hypothesis as to what that purpose might actually _be_, Spock?"

"It is puzzling. We have ruled out gathering of information. Janusia has nearly unlimited wealth in dilithium crystals, so we may theoretically rule out ransom. Perhaps for the enjoyment of inflicting pain on another… though it does seem an extraordinary amount of trouble to go to for such a mundane purpose."

"_Mundane_? Do you _realize_ what you're saying, man?"

"As I have reminded you on numerous occasions, Doctor, humans are not the only species in the galaxy."

And so on.

Kirk sighs and leans his head wearily against the damp stone wall. He is tired of the argument. McCoy and Spock have been bickering longer than he cares to admit. Both men are too pig-headed to quit while the other might be ahead. Kirk gave up on the debate hours ago, after it had ceased to be productive and before it became circular.

McCoy paces now, stopping only to emphasize points in his argument with Spock. The light cast from his chrono bobs weirdly as he walks. His bare arms are folded against the dank chill of the cell, occasionally obscuring the small light completely and plunging them all into unmitigated darkness. Kirk knows the doctor is worried about Giacomo, frustrated by his inability to do anything to help Chekov, and taking it all out on Spock.

Well, the Vulcan can handle it. Part of his charm is the singular ability to trim down McCoy's emotional outbursts at inopportune moments. Kirk has bigger problems to deal with. Chekov sleeps cradled against Kirk's muscular torso. His breathing is quick and shallow; too shallow for Kirk's (or McCoy's) liking. One side of Kirk's body is going numb from lack of circulation. He knows he should move, but he is unwilling to disturb the sleeping boy. This way, Kirk knows Pavel is still breathing. There is still nothing from Giacomo, which simultaneously disturbs and relieves the captain. Unnerving as it is to hear nothing, at least they don't have to listen to the anthropologist screaming.

The stone wall feels almost pleasantly cool now against the back of Kirk's head as he shifts slightly into a more comfortable position. He tunes out the increasingly rancorous debate raging at the other end of the cell. His weary brain begrudgingly obliges, automatically beginning to replay the memories of the day previous that Kirk has been scouring for anything that could tell him how a normal, ordinary, _boring_ diplomatic visit landed him and his men in this house of horrors.

_Kirk strode confidently up onto the transporter platform, his usual swagger looking somewhat less ridiculous now that it was backed by the three silver rings around his cuffs. The away team was already assembled there: Spock, of course; Bones, dour at the prospect of getting dragged along for _another_ of Jim's fool adventures; Chekov, failing miserably at not bouncing with excitement; and Lieutenant Rick Giacomo, an anthropologist sent out by Starfleet to keep Kirk from causing irreparable diplomatic harm by using the wrong fork at a state dinner or some such nonsense. Kirk wouldn't have minded so much if the man hadn't been an insufferable know-it-all and desperate to prove himself worthy of something other than flying a desk._

_Christ, he was _already_ lecturing about the Janusian caste system and they weren't even off the transporter pad yet. Kirk shot Bones an exasperated look, but the doctor was unsympathetic. He maintained it was Jim's own damn fault Starfleet decided to assign him a babysitter._

Chekov stirs slightly, the small movement instantly snapping Kirk out of his reverie. The young navigator looks even more vulnerable now, in his sleep, than he had before when they first dragged him away. Not for the first time that night, guilt stabs at the captain like a hot knife.

"Sorry I dragged you into this, kid," Kirk murmurs, too softly for the warring doctor and first officer to hear. "But don't worry…we'll get out. I'll…I'll get us out."

To Kirk's surprise (and mortification), a small, sleepy voice responds.

"I know you vill, Keptin."

The unwavering faith reflected in Chekov's simple statement hits Kirk as hard as Dopey's punch to the gut. Suddenly unable to look at the navigator, he looks back at the door and swallows the lump forming in his throat.

_The Janusians were pleasant enough hosts. They were more-or-less humanoid in appearance, with willowy figures and blue-tinged skin. Their eyes were very large and gold, with horizontal pupils. They reminded Jim of frogs' eyes, just like the big brown-spotted amphibians he and his brother Sam used to find along the river back home. Dressed in long shimmering robes, their graceful movements were almost hypnotic. Unfortunately, so were their monotone voices, but at least the women were good-looking enough to make the trip interesting, Kirk thought appreciatively._

McCoy finally gives up on his argument with Spock, and stalks over to take a seat on Kirk's left.

"Pointy-eared bastard," he mutters under his breath, just loudly enough that Kirk can hear him. To Jim's relief, McCoy is somewhat calmer now after the emotional release of the debate. He reaches over to check Chekov's vitals again, frowning.

The unflappable Vulcan joins them after a moment, taking a seat on Kirk's right. His dark eyes glimmer slightly as they meet Kirk's blue gaze. Kirk glances back at McCoy for a moment, before looking back at Spock to give his first officer a grateful nod. He could swear the corner of Spock's mouth quirks slightly in response to his captain's unspoken thanks. Kirk can't help smiling a little as he turns back to face the cell door, thanking the universe in general for his first officer.

_The dinner held in their honor was better than Jim had dared hope. The local cuisine was that rare combination of both digestible by humans (and Vulcans) and tasty. Spock was seated several places down from Kirk and McCoy, while Giacomo was mercifully occupied with some local dignitary. A few of the younger Janusian women were making much of a red-eared Pavel Chekov. Kirk's Janusian neighbor had excused himself for a few moments, so he was free to enjoy a quiet (if brief) drink with Bones. The doctor had come across a pale gold local concoction on the well-spread table, and while it had nothing on their usual drinks of choice, they were both enjoying it. Apparently the golden drink was popular; a half-empty glass rested at Chekov's elbow. _

_Was it Kirk's imagination, or were some of the Janusians beginning to stare? It was probably just his imagination. Janusians blinked very little, and with those huge eyes they often gave the impression that they were staring. Well, that was Giacomo's explanation, anyway. Then why was that funny tingling feeling, the one Jim privately called his captain-sense, spreading across the back of his neck? _

_Whatever was in the drinks affected skinny Chekov first. The teenager's movements were becoming progressively less coordinated with time. Now he was wobbling noticeably, and the three Janusian girls were beginning to stare. Bones rolled his eyes. "Better go cut the kid off, Jim."_

"_I made him swear up and down on his Russian honor or whatever that he wouldn't go overboard tonight," Kirk frowned. "He knows there's more at stake here than shore leave." _

_It wasn't like Chekov to forget a promise --especially one to his Captain-- but promise or not, Kirk still had to deal with it. Large golden eyes from around the table were beginning to swivel towards the navigator. Kirk had just reluctantly decided to get up when Chekov suddenly tipped off his chair. _

"_Oh for chrissake," Bones growled impatiently as they waited for the kid to get to his feet. The doctor's annoyance quickly faded to alarm as Chekov remained motionless on the rich carpet. McCoy was out of his chair in a twinkling and reaching for the medical tricorder he always carried. He stopped short suddenly. "Whoa."_

"_Bones?" Kirk's vivid blue eyes narrowed as the doctor reeled and gripped the edge of the table firmly. The doctor shook his head slightly to clear it. Numerous golden eyes watched them intently without any trace of alarm. _

_Almost as if they were expecting something to happen._

"_What the devil—" _

"_Bones!"_

_There was a crash of cutlery and a heavy thud as McCoy hit the ground in a tangle of Starfleet blue and black. Something was very, _very_ wrong. Adrenaline surged into Kirk's veins. Spock was rising in his seat, but it was too late. _

_It struck Kirk like that one shot too many, the one that pushed you off of the bar and onto the floor. He jumped up from the table, numbed hands fumbling at his belt for his communicator. But somewhere along the way, his legs forgot how to jump and he fell backwards over the chair. Myriad golden eyes watched impassively as he fell._

_He hit the floor hard enough to knock most of the breath from his body. The communicator spun uselessly out of reach. Kirk twitched weakly on the floor, trying to convince his body to obey frantic commands from his brain. A flash of scarlet, followed by another, distant thud told him that Giacomo had also succumbed. Spock was standing over Kirk now, communicator in hand. His vision was fading rapidly as he watched the Vulcan raise the communicator to his lips. The last thing Kirk remembered seeing before losing consciousness was a barbed Janusian ceremonial club crashing into the side of Spock's head. _

Kirk wakes suddenly, jolted back to consciousness by the panicked start of Pavel Chekov. Disoriented and struggling with the terrified boy, he manages to smack the back of his head painfully hard into the stone wall behind him in the process. Swearing under his breath, Kirk grips Chekov's shoulders firmly and looks over his head. It's easy to find the source of his distress.

Approaching footsteps sound down the hall and it isn't long before Runty and Ugly appear out of the darkness, illuminated by light spilling down the hall from another open door. Spock and McCoy draw together protectively in front of Kirk and Chekov. But their captors do not focus on the captives at the rear of the cell.

Instead, Runty's red eyes glint evilly as he points at McCoy.

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_Reviews are love...and get you faster updates because they make me feel guilty for not posting!_ ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Wow. I feel SOOOO awful for leaving you all hanging this long! Seriously. New job is great, but moving is terrible and has been an absolute logistical nightmare. Thank you to all my readers, with extra big thanks to all of you who reviewed; your reviews kept me going when I was suffering massive writers' block on this chapter!  
_

_All previous disclaimers and warnings still apply.  
_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 4

The darkness is truly complete now that the tiny light from McCoy's chrono is gone. Kirk clings to the cold metal bars of the cell, sightlessly staring through the dark towards the door where Bones was taken. Nearly overwhelming guilt wells into his chest, where it mingles with simmering rage.

It is Kirk's fault they are here. He should have known something was wrong. Somewhere deep down, the tiny rational corner of his brain that speaks in Spock's voice is telling him not to be stupid; that there is no way Kirk could have anticipated the events that landed his men in this hellhole. But there is no denying the fact that Kirk is in command; that he is responsible.

That his men are suffering the consequences of his stupidity hurts Kirk more than he could have ever thought possible.

Kirk can tick them off on his fingers now. Chekov, beaten within an inch of his life. God knew what was happening to Giacomo, but it certainly wasn't good. And now his friend McCoy. Bones, who had grudgingly put up with his hijinks at the Academy and grudgingly patched him up afterwards. Bones, who by smuggling his friend Jim onto the _Enterprise_, set in motion the series of events that would catapult one Cadet Kirk to the captaincy of Starfleet's flagship.

_Runty's red eyes glinted evilly as he pointed at McCoy. The doctor did not move. Kirk gingerly eased out from his seat behind Chekov and got to his feet, his blue eyes narrowing to icy slits. McCoy and Spock looked back at him expectantly, but there was nothing Kirk could say or do and they all knew it. McCoy's face hardened as he resignedly turned to face the burly aliens. _

"_Well, all right then."_

The clenched, twisting sensation of anxiety slices through his guilt and seizes Kirk's stomach with a vengeance. He forces himself to take a deep breath. _Bones'll be okay_, he tells himself firmly. _He's tough; much tougher than Chekov and far more stubborn than any of us._ Everything will all work out in the end. _Yeah, right._ Kirk doesn't believe it. He can't even reassure himself; how the hell is he supposed to reassure his men?

Anger and frustration finally overcome the young captain. Kirk's strong hands close tightly on the metal bars of the cell. He shakes them violently, again and again, until his hands cramp with exertion and he is forced to pry his white-knuckled fingers away. Panting, he leans his forehead against the cold metal and grits his teeth against the searing pains of slowly returning circulation and rising emotion.

_Kirk reclaimed Bones' blue uniform from Chekov and bundled it at the doctor. Bones shrugged it on as they marched him out of the cell at phaserpoint. Whatever happened, he was going to face it like the Starfleet officer he was. Runty grabbed at his arm, but McCoy jerked away defiantly. The alien grunted to his companion, who leveled a nasty punch at McCoy's kidney. The blow sent Bones to his knees, but Kirk could tell from the subsequent cursing that he was angrier than he was hurt._

"_Get your hands off me!" the doctor's voice snarled as they hauled him to his feet and he disappeared from Kirk's sight. The door slammed them all into darkness. _

The soft scrape of a regulation boot against the stone floor signals Spock's approach. Kirk can feel the Vulcan's eyes boring into the back of his head. Lost in his guilt, Kirk does not acknowledge him. Little snippets of previous conversations, figments of his stress and exhaustion, keep drifting through his mind.

"_Well, all right then."_

"_We'll get out of this…I'll…I'll get us out of this."_

"_I know…"_

Spock's voice sounds from the darkness to Kirk's right, breaking his concentration. "Captain?"

Kirk doesn't want to respond. He doesn't want to listen to the Vulcan's perfect logic; his perfect rationality while Kirk's men (his best friend!) are suffering and maybe dying. He doesn't want to think about McCoy's squared shoulders and bullheaded courage or Chekov's unwavering faith. He wants to sink back in a dark corner and put his head in his hands. Kicking himself is proving much easier than finding a way out of this mess.

"It is illogical for you to continue to blame yourself for our current predicament."

Kirk doesn't even bother to pretend like he has not been blaming himself the entire time. "No, it really isn't, Spock. I'm in command, it's my fault—"

Spock cuts him off in that annoyingly polite Vulcan way. "If the Captain would be so kind as to let me finish?"

Kirk swears the Vulcan only refers to him as 'the captain' when he's experiencing very _human_ irritation. Clearly, he has something on his mind. "Sure, whatever. Go ahead."

"As I said, it is illogical for you to blame yourself for an event you are not responsible for," the Vulcan continues. "It was my fault. I cannot allow you to take responsibility for my actions."

"_What?"_ Kirk exclaims, thrown by this sudden, completely unexpected admission. "Don't be ridiculous, Spock."

"It is hardly ridiculous, sir. I was unaffected by the compound in the drinks. I should have noticed that something was wrong. I thought Ensign Chekov was merely becoming intoxicated—"

Just deciphering the Vulcan's speech requires enough thought that it distracts Kirk, at least momentarily, from his anxiety for McCoy. "To be fair, so did I. And Bones—"

"I should have attempted to contact the _Enterprise_ immediately," Spock interrupts again. "It was quickly apparent that something was not right. I went to see if you and Dr. McCoy were injured. My…emotional… need to ascertain your well-being caused a delay in my transmission to the _Enterprise_ that could have resulted in their failure to transport us out, and thus our capture. I apologize for my failure, and I take full responsibility for my actions, sir."

To Kirk's surprise, a note of real guilt has crept into his usually impassive voice. It never occurred to Kirk that Spock would actually consider himself responsible for their disastrous situation. Somewhat shocked by the realization that Spock might have been (illogically) kicking himself, Kirk decides to put a stop to it.

"Spock, that's _bullshit_ and you know it."

"Captain?"

"Don't you _captain?_ me. It took like a second. Besides, concern for your friends and crewmates is never a failure in my book, Spock. And none of us could have ever seen _this_ coming. Quit beating yourself up."

"But Captain—"

"Seriously. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

The two men stand in silence for some time, each lost in his own thoughts, until the tiny window near the high ceiling of the cell begins to glow with impending dawn. Kirk finally settles with his back to the bars, relying on the uncomfortable metal digging into his spine to keep him alert. Spock remains nearby, his dark eyes periodically flickering from Kirk to hallway to Chekov.

It is not long before the first cold rays of dawn reach down into the cell from the high window. The longest of the rays bisects the exposed throat of Pavel Chekov, softly illuminating his too-pale face. Even from where Kirk is sitting, he looks like hell. The boy is loosely curled upon the floor, chest rising and falling laboriously. A great black rent in his gold uniform marks the place where the silver Starfleet insignia was ripped from over his heart. The gash across his forehead has the dull burgundy color of dried blood, contrasting sharply with his pale face and the dark purple circles forming under his large eyes.

"_Well, all right then."_

"_We'll get out of this…I'll…I'll get us out of this."_

"_I know…"_

Kirk glances away from Chekov and towards his first officer. At least discussing their situation makes it _feel_ like they're doing something. He decides to break the silence with a question that has been nagging at the back of his mind for several hours. "So you don't think we got a transmission out?"

"Unlikely, Captain. I was attempting to raise the Enterprise when I was rendered unconscious," Spock explains, diplomatically ignoring Kirk as the captain swears viciously under his breath at the news. "When we first arrived on the planet, there was some sort of interference with my tricorder readings. Whether this scrambling effect is natural or deliberately created, I cannot say. However, I believe this effect will make it quite impossible for the Enterprise's sensors to distinguish our biosignatures from those of any other sentient being in the area."

"That'd explain why they haven't beamed us out yet," Kirk says, his heart sinking as the small hope of rescue by _Enterprise_ fades. "Looks like we're on our own."

"So it would seem, Captain."

_Figures._ But Spock's story reminds Kirk of his last few memories of the dinner before waking up in the dank cell; the memories he'd been reflecting on just before Bones was taken. "Was it just me, or did they _all_ seem to be in on it?" he says slowly.

"Captain?" A tinge of puzzlement colors the Vulcan's voice.

Kirk frowns. "When Chekov keeled over, none of the Janusians seemed concerned. It was like they were waiting; like they knew what was going to happen."

Spock's left eyebrow arches skyward. "Indeed. I noticed it myself. I found it—"

He suddenly pauses mid-statement, his dark eyes darting away from Kirk and towards the hallway. It doesn't take sensitive Vulcan ears to hear the echo of approaching heavy footsteps. Kirk is immediately on his feet, gripping the cell bars and pressing his face to the space between them. His heart races as he cranes his neck desperately for a glimpse of the ominous door. It seems too soon, far too soon, for them to have finished with McCoy.

After what seems an eternity to Kirk's pounding heart, the door opens at last. The familiar form of Leonard McCoy, his dark head bowed slightly, appears between two of their brutish captors. Which two, Kirk does not know nor care. He is more concerned with the dark, wet stain spreading across the front of McCoy's blue uniform.

"_BONES!_"

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_Yes, it's an evil, evil cliffie, especially after a two week update hiatus. Don't worry, chapter 5 is written and currently being edited. PROMISE it will not be another two-week wait on an update!_ ;) _If you haven't been following it already, go read "**The Hyde Complex**" by my lovely beta Lina-Baggins while you wait_.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: As promised, another chapter and up much more quickly than the last! Moved into the apartment and getting internet soon, so I'll actually be able to acknowledge you lovely reviewers. Thanks to all readers, reviewers especially, and last but not least, the wonderful **Lina-Baggins** for her beta read and suggestions. I've tampered with her changes, so all mistakes are my own. *cue usual disclaimers and warnings*  
_

* * *

**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 5

McCoy's head snaps up at Kirk's panicked shout. Kirk blinks in surprise. The doctor's face is slightly paler than usual, but not nearly as pale as it would be if he had sustained a bad wound. Aside from a slightly swollen jaw and a split lip, he does not look much the worse for wear. McCoy looks _fine_, excepting the bloody stain soaking through his uniform just below his rib cage.

"Jesus, Jim, sit down before you fall down," McCoy says, his sardonic drawl defiant but strained. His tired eyes twinkle faintly with amusement. "Y'look like you've seen a ghost."

Kirk has never been so glad to hear anything in his life. Weak with relief, he sags heavily against the cell bars. His eyes close briefly as he concentrates on slowing his furiously pounding heart. Spock's eyes widen slightly in surprise as their gray-skinned captors usher the doctor back into their cell. Roused by the drama, Chekov manages to prop himself up on his elbows to ogle at McCoy. He sinks back to the floor with a pained grimace as soon as their gray-skinned captors disappear, saucer-like eyes glued to the doctor's midriff.

With a brief glance at Kirk, Spock asks the obvious question. "Doctor, are you wounded?"

"No, I'm okay," McCoy says, blowing him off. He seems unable to meet Kirk or Spock's eyes. "Borrowed this," he continues rather quickly, pulling a small object from his pocket and flipping it to Spock. The Vulcan catches it deftly and holds it out to Kirk, revealing a tiny light. "Thought it might come in handy."

Only several months hard practice listening to Spock's slightest of vocal inflections allow Kirk to hear the barest quaver in McCoy's voice. Kirk's eyes narrow slightly, while Spock's left eyebrow attains new heights. Since Bones is apparently uninjured, he is soaked with _someone else's_ blood. Ice congeals in the pit of the captain's stomach at the realization.

_Oh god._

"I'd like to get another look at Chekov, now that I can see my hand in front of my face—"

"Bones," Kirk interrupts, already dreading the doctor's response. "Whose blood is all over your shirt?"

They all already know the answer to his question, but Kirk needs to hear it aloud. McCoy hesitates for a long moment before forcing himself to look up at his friend.

"Giacomo's," Bones confesses, his voice flat with defeat. He wearily runs a broad hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "He's dead, Jim. I tried…wasn't much I could do…maybe if I'd been on the _Enterprise_. Hell, I don't know."

Kirk turns away to face the hallway, and closes his eyes briefly against the heavy weight of yet another death sinking onto his conscience. "How?" he forces out from a clenched jaw.

"Massive trauma. He bled out before I could do anything. Before they would _let_ me do anything," The doctor says bitterly, lip curling contemptuously. "Though I think that was the intent."

Metal rattles in protest as Kirk's hands convulsively tense into fists on the bars.

"The intent, Doctor?" Spock asks, his Vulcan monotone seeming lively in comparison to McCoy's speech. Kirk can practically hear his eyebrows rising in morbid curiosity, before he forces himself to remember that Vulcans don't do _morbid_. "You believe they meant to kill?"

His irreverent (to human ears) inflection does nothing to improve McCoy's mood. The doctor's eyes flash dangerously. "Oh yes, Spock," he snarls, furious passion slowly creeping into his voice. "Even if I'd had time, if I was in Sickbay with nurses and equipment, the chances would have been small. Not impossible, but small. They didn't let me do anything until he was too far gone… and they _knew_ it. "

Sensing the impending storm, Kirk silences his first officer with a look and draws the doctor's attention to himself. "Bones, _what happened?_"

"It was _bad_, Jim," Bones says, his eyes suddenly pleading. The captain's decision is obvious--Kirk made poor Chekov talk and Bones damn well would too. He needs to know what happened to Giacomo. Killing him very much escalated the seriousness of the entire group's situation. Slightly disgusted with how much the last thought sounded like Spock, Kirk grits his teeth and fixes his friend with a resolute blue stare.

McCoy recognizes defeat and passes a hand across his eyes wearily. As he does so the blue sleeve of his uniform creeps slightly upward to reveal raw, bloody skin around his wrist. He listlessly notes the injury before beginning to speak.

"They cuffed me and marched down a ways to another room. It had some kind of privacy field up, so you couldn't hear anything going in or out. They asked if I was the doctor and I told them to go to hell, which got me the lip. Then they sprung Giacomo on me…he was conscious at first." McCoy swallows hard to maintain control over his voice. "All I could do was stand there, watchin' him suffer and bleed. Then they shoved me in there and uncuffed my hands and said 'go ahead, try to save him'. But it was already too late. He died in my hands, Jim..."

Horrified silence descends over the group. Even Kirk cannot think of anything to say. McCoy folds his arms across his chest in a parody of his usual stance on the bridge, his shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor. The movement causes the awful stain across his abdomen to shimmer wetly in the cold morning light. There is a hollow, yet guilt-ridden look about his eyes that frightens Kirk more than anything. He has seen McCoy lose patients before, but never in such a cruelly personal manner.

After a moment, McCoy straightens slightly. It physically pains Kirk to watch his friend pull himself to back to some semblance of togetherness. His gaze flits to Chekov, who has been watching the three senior officers with wide frightened eyes. "Now, Captain, I should see to the living."

Kirk nods numbly, too many emotions coursing through his drained psyche to even begin to register. Horror and rage at one of his crewmen being left to suffer and die. Fear that one of them will be next. Relief that McCoy is uninjured physically. Concern for his friend's well-being. Awful, all-consuming guilt at placing them all into this situation to begin with.

Unable to keep still, Kirk begins to pace again. Spock stands precisely at the midpoint of his path, his hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back. He knows better than to say anything while the captain is so obviously flustered. Kirk looks over to the other end of the cell periodically, where McCoy is carefully examining Chekov. It's a painful process, as the kid's black undershirt has stuck to any open wounds. Kirk cannot help being slightly amused. Bones is a heck of a lot nicer to Chekov than he ever was to Jim after Jim got himself beaten up.

"What d'you make of all this, Spock?"

The Vulcan weighs his words a moment before responding. "It is difficult to say, Captain. I was under the impression Janusia was a peaceful planet. There _must_ be some logical purpose as to why we are being held, but I cannot fathom what that purpose may be without further information."

"What I don't get," Kirk muses, looking away from the wincing boy and back at his first officer, "Is why they went for Chekov and Giacomo first. Hell, they've got the captain _and_ the first officer of the Federation's flagship and they go after the navigator and an anthropologist? I guess Chekov's got some security clearances, but _Giacomo_? And why kill him?"

The corners of Spock's mouth turn down ever so slightly as he thinks. "Perhaps he was killed as an example?"

"An example of what?" Kirk counters. "A disinclination to cooperate? They haven't asked us to do anything yet. They didn't even threaten us; just started…doing things."

Stumped, he stops and glances over at Bones and Chekov. He winces sympathetically at the sight. Chekov's bare torso is almost entirely covered by large bruises and raw, red abrasions. Kirk's blood burns as he makes out the very clear imprint of a boot heel near Chekov's sternum. No wonder the kid was having trouble breathing; his ribs probably hurt like hell. His wiry arms were more or less the same. Even his fingers were purple with bruises.

"Bones?"

The doctor glances up at him from his crouch on the floor. "Near as I can tell, a couple of cracked ribs and some broken fingers. All manner of cuts and bruises, and some funny puncture wounds I can't tell you much about."

"You do not vant to know about zhose," Chekov pipes up fervently. McCoy silences him with a glare and continues.

"Except that Giacomo had them too. Long story short, nothing I couldn't fix in an ordinary med bay. They definitely wanted him to live, Jim."

"Fascinating," Spock says. Chekov shoots him an alarmed look while Bones rolls his eyes. Kirk almost manages a chuckle. The navigator glances nervously back at McCoy before addressing Kirk.

"Keptin?" Chekov asks, his accented voice quavering slightly.

Kirk is only half-listening, having already moved on mentally to his discussion with his first officer. "Yeah, Chekov?"

"I remembered from zhe…from before, ser. Zhey…Zhey did ask me sometheeng."

He immediately has Kirk's full attention. "What was it?"

Chekov grimaces reluctantly. "I do not remember exactly, ser. Zhey were hurting me and…it was wery strange. Zhey wanted to know about you, Keptin."

"About _me_?" Kirk asks incredulously, his mouth suddenly going dry. Though the memories are dimmed by a haze of rage, he suddenly remembers hearing Chekov's terrified refusal to do _something_ under threat of torture. "What about me, Ensign?"

The kid shivers. "I…I do not remember, ser. Ozzer zhan it was about _you_."

The little hairs on the back of Kirk's neck prickle and rise again as apprehension squeezes at his lungs. He exchanges surprised looks with Bones and Spock. McCoy has retreated behind one of his inscrutable doctor's expressions, but Kirk can see real fear in his eyes. The Vulcan's concern manifests itself much more obviously than usual in the form of slightly narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow.

"So they aren't interested in the ship or tactical information, but they're interested in _me_?"

"I don't like where this is going, Jim," McCoy growls.

"Yeah, you and me both," Kirk replies.

"I must agree with the doctor," Spock says, "Ensign Chekov's observation is most alarming."

However, further discussion is precluded by the ominous clang of the far door and heavy footsteps. Three pairs of concerned eyes instantly skewer the captain. Trying to ignore Bones' particularly grim expression, Kirk forces himself to swallow his rising fear and look outside the cell.

Big, Ugly, and Dopey are back, and their mean red eyes are glowering through the bars directly at him.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: First, I am SOOOO sorry it has taken three weeks to get this story updated! Please forgive me! It was that "perfect storm" combination of crazy busy times at work and writing troubles...another one of those chapters that got more drafts than my thesis. Oof. As always, a big thank you to all my readers (especially everyone who reviewed; please keep them coming!) and to my awesome beta **Lina-Baggins **__for her helpful suggestions (and putting up with my obsessive rewriting)._

_Just FYI, there's more swearing in this chapter than usual. Kirk's stressed. And no, I don't own anything. :(  
_

* * *

**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 6

The lock clicks and the door swings open. Three phasers are leveled on the group: one on Spock, one on McCoy, and one to keep Kirk from trying anything rash. One of the aliens raises a gnarled fist and beckons to the captain. Kirk's shoulders straighten automatically and he glances back at Bones.

"Don't go anywhere," he quips dryly to the doctor, clapping Spock on the shoulder as he strides confidently out into the waiting knot of Janusians. Two of them immediately flank Kirk, while the other sticks a phaser into his back and gives him a none-too-gentle shove forward.

He hardly cares. It's as if something inside him has snapped. Kirk is done with this _bullshit_. He's had enough of groping around in the dark; of useless theorizing and endless debating. It's time for answers, and he's going to get them no matter what it costs him, no matter what they do to him. His captain's swagger returns without conscious volition as he is prodded down towards the ominous door.

At least Kirk _himself_ is finally paying for getting them all into this mess. Despite his mounting dread for whatever the Janusians have waiting for him, the heavy knot of guilt clutching at his insides eases slightly at the thought. Involuntarily, he glances back at the cell behind him. Bones has joined Spock at the bars, his worried frown doing little to help Jim's nerves. Thankfully he cannot make out Chekov. Kirk doesn't think he could handle seeing the knowing terror reflected in the kid's eyes right about—

Strong hands suddenly pinion his arms. Another hand tugs a black bag over Kirk's head, plunging him in to instant suffocating darkness. His composure vanishes with his sight. He yells in instinctive panic, struggling with all his considerable might against the vice grip on his arms.

"JIM!" Bones bellows, alarmed by this unexpected development. His voice is muffled by the cloth and the frantic pounding of blood in Kirk's ears.

The door slams. His writhing body is unwillingly propelled onward. Suddenly, one of Kirk's arms breaks free. He lashes out blindly, his fist landing with a satisfyingly sickening crunch and evoking a grunt of pain from one of the guards. The fervid joy of taking action, of finally striking back is worth the vicious retaliatory blow to Jim's solar plexus. All breath knocked from his body, he falls hard.

The stone floor bites cruelly into Kirk's knees as he tries to force air back into his lungs. The black cloth sucks against his face with every breath, pulling claustrophobically against his mouth and nose. He can't see… can't breathe. Blood roars in his ears as his heart races frantically. Some distant intellectual part of his brain is telling him he's fine- he has plenty of air, he is not suffocating- but his body doesn't believe it. His breath comes now in shallow, rapid gasps, bringing the clinging fabric with it. Bright lights begin to pop before his sightless eyes, reminiscent of the pinpoints of stars in the vacuum of space.

But no, he's here, hyperventilating like some rookie cadet on his first ride out of atmosphere. A random memory of Bones springs to mind; Bones, unshaven and angry, arguing with someone about his irrational fear of flying. Bones would rip him a new one if he could see Jim's cowardice now… what about his crew! How could he expect them (people like _Chekov_, for god's sake!) to face danger and death on a daily basis if Kirk can't even keep himself together? Furious hot shame at his weakness burns through his panic like a phaser blast.

_GET A FUCKING GRIP, JIM!_

Rough voices are shouting at him, hands shoving him onward. Kirk ignores them and focuses on battering back his fear. The black hood begins to suck less against his face; the tension knotting his muscles eases slightly. Slowly the pounding of his heart returns to a more normal, though still elevated, rate. The panic fogging his mind ebbs away and is gradually replaced by cold, purposeful clarity.

Hard hands bind his wrists. Kirk resists as best he can, but there are three of them and only one of him. He tugs at the bonds as soon as they release his hands, testing their strength. He notes that they are some kind of rope, yet tied tightly enough that he cannot slip them off. A scraping noise assaults his ears, the sound seeming more acute without the use of his eyes. His head jerks instinctively towards the noise, nearly colliding with that of one of his captors. Kirk can feel the alien's hot breath near his ear, even through the opaque fabric of the hood.

"Sit," a gravelly, heavily-accented voice snarls in Kirk's ear.

"I'd rather stand."

The unyielding seat of a chair is brutally slammed into the backs of Kirk's knees, causing them to buckle and dumping him into it. Cursing, he tugs at his bonds again. The room, wherever it is, has become eerily silent. The only noise is the sound of Kirk's breathing in his ears and the soft creaking of his chair as he tries to work at the ropes.

The hood covering his head is abruptly yanked off. Surprised, Kirk starts and nearly upsets the chair as light stabs mercilessly at his eyes.

He is in an elegantly furnished room. Soft blue-gray curtains cascade from many windows, glowing with the cool white light of the Janusian sun. Rounded furniture, richly upholstered in deepest red, is neatly arranged around a large central space where his chair is positioned, facing an impressive executive desk.

Before the desk stands a woman.

She is one of the most striking women he has ever seen. Tall and curvaceous, with skin so dark as to be nearly teal, she is completely unlike the pale blue, willowy Janusian women. The greenish tint of her skin brings out the red tones in the auburn of her well-tamed curls. Judging from the smug authority she exudes as she slinks towards Kirk's chair, there is only one person she can be.

Their _real_ captor.

The person who ordered Chekov's torture and Giacomo's grisly death.

Instantly infuriated by the realization, Kirk surges forward. He nearly makes it to his feet before gray-skinned fingers clamp onto his shoulder and wrestle him back into the chair, chest heaving. Unperturbed by his helpless wrath, her large golden eyes appraise him with regal, almost aloof interest. Despite his fury, Jim is suddenly conscious of his own scruffy appearance: hair dirty and tousled, gold uniform scuffed with grime from the cell floor and smeared in places with Chekov's blood.

"At last," she says, in a low, melodic voice that seems to wrap itself around and relish every syllable. "James T. Kirk."

It takes every ounce of self control he possesses to get a grip on his temper. "_Captain_," he corrects crisply, forcing his face into a humorless crooked smile with a trace of that patented Kirk charm.

She laughs, a musical sound with a sinister note that sends a chill down Kirk's spine. Her sensuous lips curve into a smile as she replies. "Of course…Captain."

He forces himself to hold her unsettling golden gaze. Her pupils are oddly round, though her eyes are the usual size and color of Janusian eyes. She studies his face intently, running a glistening fingernail delicately along the bruise across his cheek left by Dopey's earlier blow. Kirk shies away instinctively from the unnervingly gentle touch.

The edge of the teal-skinned woman's mouth quirks slightly in amusement at his discomfort. She straightens regally, now focused on the aliens flanking the captain. Kirk can see them stiffen slightly, and glancing to either side, notices they appear to be standing at attention.

"Who is responsible for this?" she demands, her tone now icy cold, as she indicates the bruise on Kirk's face. Her eyes narrow as the three gray-skinned guards stare silently forward without responding.

Kirk cranes his neck, squinting up at his captors' faces. To his great satisfaction, one of them is sporting a fist-sized mark around one crimson eye. "That would be… him," he says, indicating Dopey with a jerk of his head.

"Thank you, Captain," she replies, quite deliberately raising her other hand and revealing a small phaser.

The beam sizzles centimeters from Kirk's ear as she fires, the sudden rush of superheated air causing him to jump in his seat. He just manages to bite back a _HOLY SHIT! _as Dopey's lifeless body hits the floor a moment later, smoke rising softly from the holes burned into his chest. Kirk glances from side to side. Neither of the other two Janusians have moved.

"He was not to be touched except on _my_ order!" she hisses at them furiously. "Do _not_ make me remind you again." Her nose wrinkles at the body on the floor. "Now leave us, and take _that_ with you."

Obedience is immediate. The two guards bow before impassively seizing the body of their comrade and disappearing from the room. Her eyes swivel back to Kirk, who abruptly rearranges his features from shocked to neutral. She chuckles again lowly, before continuing as if nothing had happened.

"Your holograms simply do not do you justice, Captain," she says lightly, amusement creeping in to her voice. "I must say I much prefer the real specimen."

Kirk glares back, heart pounding, but determined to at least _seem _unintimidated. "Are you in charge here?"

She meets his glare with a coy smile. "Was I not quite what you were expecting, Captain?"

"Let's cut the crap," he snaps, throwing two days' pent-up anger and frustration into his steeliest command tone. "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want from us?"

The woman cocks her auburn head, her full lips curving into a half-smile that does not reach her predatory eyes. "As you wish. _Who_ I am is not important. The fact that I am in control should be sufficient." She has started to circle Kirk's chair now with a sort of feline grace, phaser prominently displayed in one delicate hand. "But you may call me Lilith. You wouldn't able to pronounce my true name."

Her perfectly tailored garment clings strategically as she walks, the pale iridescent material shimmering in the cool light. Imagining what Bones would say if he found out Jim was checking out the enemy, Kirk keeps his eyes forward. _Why can nobody on this damned planet give a straight answer?_

Lilith has finally completed her circuit and stands before Kirk once again. "I've been waiting for you for a long time."

Kirk tugs at his bonds again out of sheer frustration and is heartened to notice that they have loosened infinitesimally. He raises an eyebrow coolly at her statement, trying to play for time to work at the ropes. "Well, you've got me now."

Lilith reaches out with another lacquered talon and tips his chin up to study his face again. He can't help shuddering at the touch. Her fingers feel as if they suck the warmth from his skin. "No, I still don't quite have you, James Kirk…but it will be interesting to see how long it takes."

"Was that _supposed_ to make any sense?"

She continues, still infuriatingly coy, as if he had not said anything. "To answer your second question, Captain, whoever said I wanted anything _from _you?"


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: You guys are in luck, I was up early this morning for NASA's LCROSS impact!_ _So happy Friday._ _Thank you to my lovely beta **Lina-Baggins** for her editing skills and excellent suggestions! And thank you to Musingsage, blueblackangel, Capt. Cow, JCassie241, and gowvan for the reviews, as well as to all of my other readers! :)_

* * *

**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 7

"_To answer your second question, Captain, whoever said I wanted anything _from_ you?"_

A lead weight drops into the pit of Kirk's stomach.

Oh _shit._ She doesn't care about the _Enterprise_ or Federation secrets. She wants _him_, James T. Kirk. But why? Why _him_? Why not Spock or Bones or Chekov? Or any of the other Starfleet captains roaming the galaxy? Somehow, Kirk doesn't think answers will be forthcoming.

Lilith's golden gaze is fixed on his face, relishing his moment of realization and subsequent confusion. Kirk looks back at her warily. He finds the hungry look in her eyes disturbing, but he is unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing she is getting to him by looking away. He won't delude himself into thinking that the situation is as simple as she makes it out to be. But she might have just given him crucial information to exploit. She wants him alive and relatively unharmed. His life clearly has value to her and Kirk is determined to exploit it.

The captain's face hardens with resolve as he makes his decision. It doesn't matter why she wants him or what she's planning on doing with him. He can make that warp when he comes to it. What is important is that Kirk finally has a bargaining chip. Unfortunately, this particular chip is very dear to him. Perhaps it is not so precious to the woman who has them at her mercy. But maybe, just maybe, he can exchange one life for three.

"Look, you want _me_, you can have _me_," Kirk says evenly. "But let my men go."

His offer hangs in the air between them for a moment as she studies him with slightly narrowed eyes. Her expression strangely reminds Kirk of his first officer. She has that same calculating look that Spock gets when he's playing chess, as if weighing multiple options and forecasting their outcomes into the future one by one. He finds it odd. Why is it so important to her to maximize the effect of her response?

Yet after all that thought, Lilith decides on a non-answer. "As you pointed out before, Captain, I already _have_ you here. Why would I make a trade?"

Kirk cocks his head slightly_. _Her response seems strangely guarded for such a demonstratedly decisive woman. "What I meant was that I'll cooperate with…whatever. _If_ you free my men."

To his horror, Lilith's calculating expression evaporates and is rapidly replaced with a predatory smile. "I know what you meant," she replies coyly. "But whatever made you think I would wish for your…_cooperation?_"

A chill runs down the captain's spine. "Well, it'd make whatever you're doing easier, wouldn't it?" he forces out from between stiff lips. "If I were a willing…participant." Even as he says it, he tries not to think about what being a _willing participant_ could possibly entail.

She smiles at him. "My dear Captain, it is not that simple."

"Sure it is," Kirk says stubbornly. He takes a deep breath to quell his nerves, hoping that she will interpret the slight interruption as a dramatic pause. "I stay. My men leave. Everyone gets what they want."

She chuckles, as if amused by the bumbling actions of a favorite pet. "The fact that we are _having_ this conversation reveals that you have no idea what I want."

Jim instantly regrets using the word "pet." _She's twisted enough she might just have that in mind…_ Thankfully, he does not have long to reflect on that particularly awful possibility. The auburn-haired woman is moving again, slowly circling behind Jim's chair. His eyes follow her briefly. As Lilith moves out of his field of vision, a glint of metal atop the dark wood of the desk suddenly catches his eye.

A Starfleet communicator.

Kirk's heart skips a beat. If he can just get his hands on that communicator…

His mind immediately leaps to diversion tactics. _Keep talking. Buy time._ "Why are they still here, anyway? I thought you were only interested in me."

Newfound hope suddenly floods him. _He could contact the Enterprise. He could get help._ Kirk's mind races as he stares at the instrument of their salvation, simultaneously trying to estimate the distance and devise a plan to reach it. The desk is only a few meters from his chair. A motivated man could easily reach it quickly enough…and Kirk is motivated.

Kirk flinches as Lilith's glistening fingernails brush against the sensitive skin of his neck, the hair-raising sensation breaking his concentration. He'd almost forgotten she was behind him.

"I am," she replies softly, her mouth centimeters from his ear. Thinking about the communicator, Kirk manages to not cringe.

_The transporter could lock onto the comm signal and beam him and his three surviving men out of this nightmare._ That left the ropes. How can he wriggle out of the ropes with that blasted woman standing over his shoulder? He tugs at his bonds again as subtly as possible. Yes, his left hand is barely beginning to slide free...

"Then you don't need my men," Kirk observes bluntly. Hopefully _that_ conundrum will keep her busy for a moment.

His heart leaps as he catches motion out of the corner of one eye. Lilith's fingertips trace along the curve of his other shoulder as she reappears in front of him again. His body and the chair now shield his hands from view. _If_ he can slip the ropes, can he reach the cover of the desk before being cut down by the phaser fire? Unfortunately it's a very large _if_, but Kirk's willing to risk it.

Lilith's answer hits him like a physical blow. "On the contrary, Captain, they are essential."

Kirk tears his eyes from the communicator and looks up incredulously at the auburn-haired woman. Once again, she's utterly shattered his patchy conception as to why he—they—are here. "What? _Why_?"

"We all have our roles to play," Lilith replies enigmatically, her melodic voice practically dripping smugness. She _knows_ she's getting to him, and enjoying it to the hilt.

"_Roles?_ These are people's _lives_!" Kirk explodes, too disgusted to bother to keeping up a collected front any longer.

Lilith's golden eyes observe his outburst with the same detached interest as before. "As insightful as this conversation is, Captain, I'm afraid I must cut it short. It would appear we've yet to make much of an impression so far."

The short-lived hopes kindled by the communicator abruptly deflate at the obvious dismissal. "My men, when they're done with these…roles…will you let them go?" Kirk asks desperately, in a last ditch effort to stall her departure.

Lilith's lips quirk into a cruel smile. "You should not become so attached to your companions, James Kirk. I believe one of your own human writers put it best: Hell is other people."

She glances at something over Kirk's shoulder. The two guards have returned. "Put him back where he belongs. The usual treatment should be adequate for now, though I doubt it will have any effect," she orders, running a finger across Kirk's bruised cheek again. "And _do_ try not to damage that handsome face."

She runs a last, lingering look over the captain's face before turning and sauntering towards the opposite end of the room. Carelessly, she brushes up against the desk. Kirk tenses as the communicator clatters to the floor, praying that the fall did not damage it. Lilith pauses for a moment at the harsh sound, and Kirk could swear she's mocking him. Seething, he glares daggers at her disappearing back as the guards drag him from the room.

Their destination is a small, foul-smelling chamber with grim gray walls and an equally grim gray floor. Kirk can just make out a small table, from which lethal-looking metal instruments glimmer faintly. Despite his brave front, fear is bubbling into his stomach. It doesn't take a genius to guess what's coming next. He swallows hard.

"So, just business as usual?" Kirk taunts, forcing bravado he does not feel into his voice. Maybe he can irritate them into making a mistake. "Wow, who _is_ that piece of work back there?"

The smaller of the two guards crosses the room and begins fiddling with something Kirk cannot see. Meanwhile, the other guard grabs his bound hands roughly and slices through the ropes. He can't help rubbing at the chafed skin for a moment before continuing his abuse.

"She killed your friend and you're still doing what she says? Did you see that? Did you see how she killed him? Damn, talk about _whipped_. She's easy on the eyes, all right, but seriously, you could do so much better—"

He's finally crossed the line. The guard grabs him by the collar of his gold uniform and slams him into the wall hard enough to make him see stars. A pair of metal restraints is clapped onto the dizzy captain's wrists before he can even protest, now binding his hands in front of his body.

"You will not speak of Her Highness in this way."

The one holding Kirk shoves him hard. Unable to catch his balance with his hands bound, he goes sprawling in the middle of the room. Kirk tastes blood in his mouth but resists the urge to spit it out immediately. Instead he stays down for a moment as if stunned, hoping to bait one of them into coming closer. Sure enough, the larger of the two guards approaches curiously.

Kirk rolls onto his back and strikes from the floor, the hard heel of his booted foot slamming into the side of the alien's knee. There is a sickening crunch and a howl of pain as the big alien hits the ground. The captain grins at him. He snarls something to the smaller Janusian, who shrugs and hauls Kirk up from the floor.

The uninjured guard drags him to the wall, where he hooks the chain between Kirk's handcuffs up over his head courtesy of a peg in the wall. He lets the captain struggle futilely for a moment before grabbing a handful of Kirk's blond hair and wrenching his head to the side. His blue eyes widen in surprise as the alien presses a hypospray into his exposed neck. _This can't be good._

Kirk's vision slides out of focus as the drug takes effect. His limbs turn to lead and then to water, sending him plunging towards the floor. The shackles bite into his wrists as all of his weight is suddenly thrown onto his bound arms. He tries to stand, but his legs will not obey the commands from his brain. Cold sweat breaks out over his body as he realizes he cannot move. The injured Janusian stands over him, an ugly smirk twisting his brutish features. In his hand is a simple device that Kirk instantly recognizes as an agonizer.

* * *

_Agonizers appear in the original series episodes "Mirror, Mirror" and "Day of the Dove". Please review!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: *grovel* I am appalled and so sorry it's taken this long to update! I'm busy and studying for entrance exams...blah. Many thanks to the five of you who reviewed: Musingsage, VikingShadow, JFarrell, CaptCow and -NightRise-! Without further ado..._

_disclaimer: I don't own anything. Sad.  
_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 8

A shrill squeal crawls up from the floor and into his ear, where it eats mercilessly into his brain. Waves of gray mist roll across his hazy vision. Another jolt or two to his throbbing arms and he is conscious enough to realize the squeal is coming from his own boots as they are dragged across the floor. The irritating noise fades like snow into fog as his head lolls backwards again.

They dump Kirk unceremoniously on the floor of the cell. He groans as the impact jostles his aching body. Someone catches his head before it can slam into the hard floor and lowers it gently. The concerned face of Leonard McCoy, closely followed by that of Pavel Chekov, swims into focus above him. Kirk blinks. Someone is missing. Spock. Before Kirk can form the words to ask about the Vulcan, their faces dissolve into mist.

"_Keptin?" a whispered voice, thin with fear, bored its way into Kirk's numbed brain. "Keptin?" Hesitant hands shook his arm. "Keptin, please!" Chekov's voice. "Zhere is someone watching us…zhey hawe red eyes-"_

Hands shake his arm. "Jim? Jim?"

Kirk opens his eyes, and is confused to see McCoy, not Chekov, shaking him gently. Bones looks uncharacteristically relieved. Kirk blinks as he tries to reassert some control over his vision. Chekov's pale face joins the doctor's above him.

The ensign cocks his head appraisingly. "He does not look so good, ser."

"Neither do you," Bones grumbles, shooing Chekov out of his way with a gesture.

The doctor frowns down at Kirk, trained eyes sweeping over his prone form. The frown deepens as he spots the two holes charred into the gold fabric of his uniform by the agonizer. Kirk stubbornly attempts to push himself up onto one elbow, gasping as the cell walls begin to spin as he lifts his head. McCoy rolls his eyes and shoves him back to the floor.

"Let that be a lesson to you to just lie there for a while."

"Spock?" Kirk finally manages to croak. He closes his eyes as the room whirls drunkenly. The doctor gently runs his hands over Kirk's skull, feeling for injuries.

"Spock's been gone a couple of hours," Bones replies as he works. He snaps his fingers in front of Kirk's nose to get his attention. The captain's blue eyes open with obvious reluctance. "They hit you on that thick head?"

"No, the wall did," Kirk mumbles. Bones' probing fingers have finished with the lump on the back of his skull and moved on to the hypo mark on his neck. He weakly tries to push the doctor's hand away. "Lemme 'lone. I'm okay."

"Shut up and hold still," McCoy growls.

Bones' fingers tug at his eyelids gently. "Gerroff Bones…" he groans, trying and failing to roll away from the doctor. Kirk winces as a bright light lances into one eye. He dazedly reaches up to bat it away, missing by several centimeters. Scowling, he swipes at it again, but McCoy intercepts his hand with practiced ease and pushes it down to Kirk's chest. He shines the light into Kirk's other eye without missing a beat.

"Dammit Bones…I'm fine," the captain protests. "Look…"

"Dunno what they drugged you with," McCoy sighs, firmly pressing Jim back to the floor for the second time. "But there's not much I can do about it. Do yourself a favor, Jim, and just pass out."

Kirk's head rolls limply to the side again as he does just that.

"_Keptin! Please!" the boy's voice was nearly frantic._

_The floor was cold and clammy against his warm cheek. Startled by the sudden sensation, Kirk awoke fully with a jolt. What? Why was he on the floor?_

"_What…Chekov?" he managed to groan as his youngest officer's face resolved out of the too-bright light. His head simultaneously throbbed and felt light. His hand brushed something soft as he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. Bones was sprawled beside him, stirring feebly. Spock lay motionless nearby. Kirk could see green blood oozing from beneath his dark hair._

"_Sir…" Giacomo's voice, fraught with panic yanked Kirk's attention away from his injured first officer. He pointed with a trembling hand wordlessly to something behind Kirk. The captain turned._

_A cluster of burly, crimson-eyed aliens was staring back at him. Kirk's eyes narrowed to icy slits. A barrier of metal bars separated them from the aliens. A cell._

_They were in a cell. _

_Reality crashed into him like a thunderbolt. They were prisoners. Kirk's blood began to burn. He could feel Chekov and Giacomo's eyes boring into him, waiting for him to do something. The captain stood slowly and straightened to his full height. Despite being wide-eyed with fear, Chekov followed his lead and straightened up beside his captain. He shot the hesitant, trembling lieutenant a look of Slavic disapproval that Kirk would have found hilarious in a less dire situation. Behind them, he could hear muttered cursing as Bones found the injured Vulcan._

"_I am Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship _Enterprise_. What gives you the right to hold me and my men?" _

_Instead of an answer, one of them keyed the lock. Before Kirk could move, one of them had seized Chekov by the collar of his uniform and dragged the terrified boy bodily from the cell. Kirk flung himself after the ensign—_

He wakes in a chiaroscuro world, lying on his side at the edge of a pool of golden light surrounded by blackness. His head, blessedly clear, is pillowed on one outstretched arm. Only his eyes move as he takes stock of the cell. McCoy leans bare-armed against the wall nearby, his head nodding slightly as he dozes. His bloodied blue uniform lies discarded in the far corner of the room. Ensign Chekov has curled himself into a miserable ball next to the doctor. What little of his skin the captain can make out is still far too pale. Spock is nowhere to be seen.

Kirk finally bites the bullet and rolls onto his back. He can't help groaning as shooting pains slice through his battered body (particularly his shoulders) as he moves. He lies there for a moment, panting. Bones opens his eyes at the sound.

"Welcome back," he drawls, offering Kirk an attempt at a smile and a hand up. "I was wondering when you'd come 'round."

"How long was I out?" Kirk asks, grimacing with pain as the doctor helps haul him into a sitting position against the wall. He leans against the damp stone with relief.

"Long enough you'll get mad if I tell you," Bones replies evasively.

Kirk rolls his eyes. It's the only appropriate gesture he can think of that does not require painful movement. The undertone of frustration in his friend's voice is the only thing keeping Kirk from telling him off immediately for the non-answer. Before he can question the doctor further, Bones hands him a partially-filled container of water.

"It came while you were out," he explains. He notices Kirk's glance at Chekov and switches to his strict doctor-patient tone. "Drink it. I've had some and so has Chekov, so we can skip the part where you go all noble and self-sacrificing on me and refuse."

"Am I that predictable?" Kirk asks, managing a half-smile. The water feels wonderfully cool on his rough throat as he sips it.

"Yep, y'are. All of it, Jim. "

Kirk obediently (gratefully) drains the water and sets down the empty container. Bones is eyeing him, looking like he is about to ask a question. There is only one thing he would possibly ask about, and Kirk doesn't want to think about it. He rubs the stinging agonizer burns on his chest and hastily changes the subject. "How long has Spock been gone?"

The doctor raises an eyebrow slightly, but answers the question. "It's been a while…longer than you or Chekov."

Kirk's heart sinks. "Vulcans can tolerate more pain than humans though, right?" he asks, wishing he could somehow find the thought comforting.

"Yeah, they can. But that's what worries me," Bones replies grimly. Kirk raises a questioning eyebrow. "It takes some doing to make _you_ yell like that, Jim."

"Thanks, Bones," Jim says ruefully, making a face.

"I don't want to know what they've cooked up for the hobgoblin."

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Kirk is reminded of his own hellish hours spent waiting for Chekov, waiting for McCoy. It suddenly dawns on him that McCoy has just gone through the same thing. The waiting was probably even worse for McCoy. Imagining whatever horrors were being wrought upon his friends' bodies; possessing the knowledge and the skill to help them, yet being absolutely powerless to do so... Kirk shivers and breaks the silence. "This is some _twisted_ shit, Bones."

"Yeah," the doctor laconically agrees. "I'm gonna be dreamin' about Giacomo for a while," he admits. "You sure you're okay?"

He studies Jim for a moment, and Kirk realizes McCoy is trying again to get him to talk about what happened with Lilith. Neither Jim nor Captain Kirk feels like discussing it yet. "I've been worse."

"Yeah, I know," McCoy retorts, his eyes crinkled slightly with concern but not questioning Kirk further. The ever-practical doctor takes a seat on Jim's free side and leans back against the wall. "Well then I'm gonna finish my nap. Something tells me that between the three of you, I'm gonna need it."

Kirk sighs as his friend closes his eyes. The conversation with McCoy was his only distraction, the only thing keeping him from thinking about the fact that his first officer is being tortured or that Giacomo is dead or that any of the horrible things that have happened to them are all entirely _his_ fault. He has managed to fend off Bones' questions for now, but he knows similar tactics will not work on Spock. Eventually Kirk will have to tell his first officer and CMO _something_ about his session with Lilith. The mere thought of her makes his skin crawl.

Two days gone and they are no closer to getting out of this mess. The communicator doesn't count. Neither does anything Lilith supposedly revealed. He rubs the agonizer wounds on his chest absently. If anything, his session with the teal-skinned woman created more questions than it answered. He cannot fathom why she is so interested in him or what she wants with his men. Until he can do so, he has nothing. Even James T. Kirk can't bluff without knowing _what_ to bluff.

Attempting to distract himself from his own helpless frustration, Kirk glances down at Chekov. The kid's face is to the wall, but he is definitely shivering again. Kirk sighs and begins the arduous task of removing his gold uniform. It's difficult, as he can barely stand to move his shoulders at all and he's reluctant to disturb Bones for assistance. Swearing through gritted teeth, he finally emerges from the fabric and drapes it over the shivering teenager. Maybe it's his imagination, but Chekov shakes a little less violently. Kirk's low spirits lift slightly at the small victory.

No, they aren't licked yet. He realizes he is being childish about Lilith and her disturbing interest because telling Bones and Spock about it forces him to acknowledge it; to accept it as real. Kirk settles against the wall as comfortably as he can manage and begins to replay their conversation in his head. Maybe tomorrow one of them will be able to put the pieces together.

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_A/N: Kirk needed a breather. Especially given NEXT chapter! I feel bad for leaving you all hanging soooo long, so nice people who review get more than an e-cookie: they get an excerpt of the next chapter._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Note to self: shameless bribery = win. Many, many thanks to the 20+ of you who reviewed last chapter! Please keep them coming! This chapter is a little longer than the others, but I figured you all would rather have a couple hundred words extra than a three week wait. ;-)_

_All previous disclaimers apply. _

* * *

**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 9

"_On the contrary, Captain, they are essential." _

"_But whatever made you think I would wish for your…cooperation?"_

"_The fact that we are having this conversation reveals that you have no idea what I want."_

_Well, she's certainly right about that, _Kirk thinks sourly_._

Lilith's words rattle around in his head, refusing to fall into any sort of place. He grips his temples in a vain attempt to ward off the frustrated ache forming behind his eyes and tilts his head to read McCoy's chrono display. The doctor has only been asleep for a few hours. Kirk isn't mean enough to wake him now without a good reason. Not for the first time, he wishes Spock was there. Spock barely slept, and maybe his Vulcan logic could make some sense of Lilith and her riddles.

Kirk feels a sharp stab of guilt for the selfish thought as he abruptly remembers _where_ his first officer is. God, he must be more tired than he thought. It's not as if Spock is out for a walk on the observation deck. Unlike McCoy, he is cautiously hopeful that his first officer's iron will and Vulcan stamina are more than a match for anything the Janusians can throw at him.

The captain sighs and places his hands on the floor to lever himself into a slightly more comfortable position. One of them slides in something wet. Surprised, he lifts his hand to examine it. He recoils when he sees the red smeared across his palm and fingers.

Blood. His uninjured hand is covered with _blood_.

Heart pounding, he rubs the hand on his trousers and looks around frantically for a source. There is a scarlet line on the floor shining wetly in the yellowish light of their tiny lamp. Kirk follows the rivulet with his eyes, all the way to—

Chekov.

His musings are instantly forgotten as fear lances into his brain. The captain elbows Bones before leaning over and shaking the ensign gently. He can feel the heat radiating from Chekov's body even before his hand makes contact with the kid's shoulder. "Chekov?"

The Russian stirs slightly, his ashen face glistening with sweat as it turns up towards Kirk. Twin thin streams of blood are trickling from his nose and the reopened gash across his forehead, down his face, and to the floor. Chekov's eyes, strangely distant, finally flutter open.

"Keptin?" he asks feebly, raising a shaking hand to dab weakly at his nose. "Am I late for the bridge, ser?"

Dazed fear slowly spreads across Chekov's face as he notices the blood staining his fingers. "Uh, don't worry about it," Kirk stammers, trying to reassure the kid despite his own alarm. "Riley said he'd cover for you."

McCoy grunts irritably and peers Kirk's shoulder. "What now-- _Jesus Christ_, Jim, why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Even McCoy's years of experience can't keep the shocked horror out of his voice. Kirk flattens himself against the wall as the doctor moves over to crouch on Chekov's other side. Bones brushes the kid's filthy curls off of his forehead to get a better look at the cut. He swears again as his fingers make contact with Chekov's hot skin. He presses a broad hand to an uninjured part of the ensign's face, his eyebrows knitting together ominously.

"Bones, what's he _bleeding_ like that for?" Kirk asks, appalled.

"How should I know?" the doctor snaps. He rocks back on his heels to study the teenager briefly. It takes him a moment to collect himself before he begins to work.

Meanwhile, Chekov's vague, imploring eyes seek out Kirk. "Mr. Riley, ser? I do not vant…a black mark on my record."

Kirk swallows hard and tries to sound reassuring even as he watches McCoy's deepening frown. "Don't sweat it, Ensign. No black marks on your record today."

The captain looks on helplessly as Bones tries to tend to the boy. It rapidly becomes apparent that the only thing he can do is stay out of the doctor's way. He reluctantly relocates to a seat closer to the cell door, anxiety gnawing at his insides. Eventually Kirk can't stand it anymore and tries to look away. Yet the sound of McCoy's soft drawl, interspersed with increasingly irrational outbursts from Chekov, still reaches his ears. It hurts him to listen.

God, he wishes Spock was there. As he tries to reassert some control over the emotions tearing at his exhausted psyche, Kirk realizes how much he has come to depend on his imperturbable first officer in the past months. He feels strangely adrift without the Vulcan's quiet, dependable strength at his right elbow; the cool logic that is always ready to temper Kirk's more impulsive nature.

He could use some of that Vulcan serenity right now. Who needed an agonizer in the face of such maddening helplessness? Watching the last vestiges of Chekov's lucidity fade away and McCoy's ineffective efforts to hide his growing alarm is far worse.

By the time Spock reappears around local noon, Chekov is delirious with fever and McCoy is as worried as Kirk has ever seen him. The kid can barely lift his head and is muttering incoherently in two languages. Wrapped up in Chekov's plight, Kirk barely notices Spock's presence until the cell door opens with a loud creak and he stumbles in. Intense relief washes over him as soon as he recognizes the Vulcan's familiar silhouette.

Kirk hauls himself to his feet. On first glance, his first officer seems tired but appears unharmed. The heavy burden weighing on his shoulders lightens a little. "Spock."

"Captain," he says, his tone vaguely brittle. "I am relieved to see you are uninjured."

"So am I," Kirk replies with an almost smile. Bones looks up at the sound of voices, the small motion unintentionally catching Kirk's attention. McCoy's eyes narrow slightly as he studies Spock. They warily follow the Vulcan even as his hand rests protectively on Chekov's shoulder, but he says nothing. Puzzled, Kirk looks back at Spock.

The changes are subtle. His face is composed as usual under a layer of grime, though his hair is lightly ruffled and stiff on one side with dried blood. He carries himself nearly as he always does, square-shouldered and ramrod straight. But as Kirk watches, Spock's face spasms as a fragment of expression breaks through the calm mask. The Vulcan closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. His features gradually smooth again, but a slight tremor is visible in his hands. Any one of these symptoms on its _own_ Kirk could chalk up to sheer exhaustion.

But despite his renewed calm, a distinct flicker of fear has come into Spock's dark eyes.

Kirk frowns with concern, but McCoy's voice interrupts before he can ask. "Jim."

It is only then that Kirk notices Spock has taken a half step backwards, but McCoy's tone is too urgent to ignore. Swearing under his breath, Kirk moves to face the doctor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the Vulcan sag ever so slightly and retreat to the side of the cell farthest from Chekov and McCoy.

Ignoring the screams of protest from his muscles, Kirk crouches in front of McCoy and Chekov. The doctor raises his eyebrows and glances in Spock's direction. Kirk shakes his head almost imperceptibly. A forced conversation with his old adversary was probably the last thing the Vulcan's frayed nerves needed at the moment. With a last concerned glance at Spock, Kirk turns his full attention back to McCoy.

To their mutual relief, Chekov has finally fallen asleep. His condition appears otherwise unchanged. Kirk shoots the doctor a questioning look. McCoy shrugs innocently, and Kirk finally realizes that the only reason McCoy got his attention in the first place was to give Spock a minute to pull himself together.

"_I'll_ deal with Spock. _You_ worry about Chekov," Kirk orders softly before Bones can open his mouth.

The doctor looks like he is going to protest, but thinks better of it. "Worry…that seems to be 'bout all I can do these days," Bones says wearily. He sighs as Kirk's vivid eyes flick to Chekov. "I don't think I need to tell you it's not good. Fever, delirium…and this infernal bleeding! It's getting worse."

"_Worse?_"

"It's weird as hell, Jim. I can't get it to stop, and it's spreading." McCoy indicates one of Chekov's arms, where a small sliver of bare skin is visible. "See the bruising on his wrist? I took his pulse there earlier and there was nothing. Some of the older wounds have reopened; old bruises enlarged and darkened. There's other new bruises too."

"But nobody's laid a hand on him since the first night," Kirk observes. The blood continuing to trickle down the ensign's face makes him feel sick.

"I know. Something else, something internal, is causing him to bleed. I think it's some kind of disease, a virus maybe. Won't know for certain until we get back to the _Enterprise_. But we have no idea what all's lurking around down here. Hell, he could have been infected intentionally."

Kirk looks from the anxious doctor to the mercifully unconscious navigator. He sighs and runs a hand through his dirty hair. "Shit."

"My thought exactly. I wanted to wait until he was asleep to say-- If this keeps up, Jim, there isn't a blessed thing I can do about it."

Bones does not need to finish the statement. The unspoken plea in his voice stabs Kirk like a knife. Damned if he's going to let Chekov die.

But McCoy is no longer paying attention to Kirk. He is staring at Spock.

One look at the Vulcan and Kirk instantly knows something is _very_ wrong. His first officer's eyes are desperately squeezed shut and his entire body quakes like a leaf. Kirk stares as Spock's hands suddenly clench into fists. The trembling abruptly ceases. For a fleeting moment, Kirk thinks the danger has passed. The Vulcan's eyes fly open. He just has time to shoot his friend a stricken look before his frayed nerves finally snap.

Spock turns and quite deliberately slams his fist into the stone wall.

Before Kirk's shocked brain can process the event, Spock repeats the gesture again and again with an almost manic fury. Green blood blossoms on the stones.

"_Spock!_"

Kirk and McCoy yell at the same time. Kirk nearly trips over his own feet as he lunges across the cell. He seizes Spock's elbow as the Vulcan winds up to punch the wall again and hangs on with all his might. Spock rounds on the captain, his face contorted in a paroxysm of rage Kirk has not seen since the day he assumed command of the _Enterprise_. His shoulders tense, and for a split second Kirk is afraid the Vulcan is going to strike him.

"Spock!" he cries, "What're you doing?"

Spock blinks. His body freezes, but Kirk can feel him trembling through the grip on his arm. His face gradually reverts to its usual calm mask. He closes his eyes for a moment and his taut body relaxes slightly.

"Thank you, Captain. You may release me now," he says, his voice a shaky parody of its usual monotone. His chest is still heaving as he avoids Kirk's eyes. "I apologize if my outburst startled you."

"_Startled?_" McCoy begins incredulously, but Kirk silences him with a look. Not wanting to antagonize the Vulcan further, he warily relinquishes his grip on Spock's elbow.

"The hell was that?" he demands.

The Vulcan dispassionately examines his mangled knuckles before responding. His voice is brittle. "It seemed logical at the time, Captain."

Kirk ignores Bones' thunderous expression. "Explain."

Spock still will not look at him. "I lost control," he says simply.

"So you_ broke _your hand?" McCoy bursts out in spite of Kirk's warning glare.

"I lost control," Spock repeats softly, fixated on the thought. Kirk clears his throat loudly and the Vulcan comes back to himself. "The wall provided an appropriate and effective outlet for the offending emotions."

"_What?_" Kirk exclaims. Spock sounds more than a little unhinged.

Spock shifts uncomfortably. "The wall was a more appropriate outlet than you, Captain, or Doctor McCoy."

He meets Kirk's eyes. The icy, emotionless commander who once lectured him about the importance of controlling fear is gone. The Vulcan is profoundly _afraid_.

Finally, Kirk understands. Spock's trembling was not a sign of exhaustion, but a sign of exertion. It takes all of his strength to keep himself under control. If he lost it…Kirk knew Spock could easily kill them all in a rage. Spock knew it, too. Kirk's heart sinks to his boots.

"I have reestablished control, but I do not know for how long. I underestimated our captors," Spock explains dully. "They have correctly deduced that Vulcans are highly resistant to physical torture. Instead, they attack the mind. They are attempting to compromise me emotionally, Captain, and I regret that their methods are proving much more effective than I had anticipated."

Kirk doesn't hear the words; only their implications. Spock is not going to be able to help him. He is on his own.

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_Review or the Russian gets it! _

_*cough* I mean, there will be more e-cookies and previews for reviewers. :)  
_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Talk about down to the wire. I'm literally posting this from the airport. Bless Google and their free wi-fi! I do apologize for making you all wait so long after I promised to have this chapter out. I really, really tried, but it wasn't working and this chapter is too important for half-measures!_

_As always, a big THANK YOU to all you lovely people who reviewed! :)  
_

* * *

**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 10

Three days pass.

Kirk's head is in his hands. Unshaven stubble pricks against his dirty palms. His vivid blue eyes, dulled by stress and fatigue, are closed. He does not need them to see the cell. The positions and conditions of his three surviving men are burned into his consciousness.

Chekov's slight form lies crumpled in same position it has been in since he fell ill. McCoy keeps his feverish body propped on its side to keep the blood still ebbing from his nose from running down his throat. Reddish patches seep through his uniform in places. The dark bruises slowly spreading through his chalk-white skin have begun to encroach upon his face.

_Kirk felt his heart stop. Chekov was so pale, so still, so utterly lifeless that he had to be—oh god no, he couldn't—_

_McCoy's fingers tightened bracingly on the captain's shoulder. "No, Jim, he's alive. Barely."_

The Russian has been comatose for almost a day now. A part of Kirk is relieved they no longer have to listen to his delirious ravings. Even Bones had nearly lost it when the kid started asking for his mother.

Kirk hates that guilty relief almost as much as he hates himself for dragging Chekov into this mess.

McCoy sprawls uselessly against the wall beside the dying navigator. Several days' stubble darkens his drawn, haggard face. He will not leave Chekov's side. There is nothing else he can do. What is left of his spirit flashes to the surface every time Kirk tries to convince him to rest. Bones turns the air blue with his explosive refusals, even though his head begins to nod with fatigue as soon as Kirk gives up and looks away.

_Kirk listened numbly as the doctor explained that the kid's body was shutting down. He was hanging on, but not by much. They were running out of time._

_And not just for Chekov. The incessant strain was clearly affecting McCoy. Bones' famously short temper was on a hair trigger. He no longer slept. _

Spock kneels in the farthest corner from the other three men. His dark-haired head is bowed slightly in Vulcan meditation, revealing a swarm of green hypo marks on his neck. The Janusians seem to be concentrating their nefarious efforts on the first officer. They force him from the cell several times a day and return him hours later, silent and clearly shaken. Spock will not say what treatment he is subjected to during these sessions. He barely speaks at all. So far he has managed to cling to his composure through nearly constant meditation.

_Kirk glanced to the empty spot normally occupied by Spock. To McCoy's unabashed relief, the Vulcan spent more time out of the cell than in it. There have been no other outbursts, but there have been a few close calls. Spock and Bones nearly came to blows one afternoon before Kirk could diffuse the situation._

But Kirk knows time is running short. He can see it in the increasingly exhausted set of Spock's shoulders; the dead look in his normally expressive eyes.

Kirk is desperate. He is out of ideas. They have tried every possible means of escape three times over. He would give anything to get them out. He would do anything for even the smallest chance to escape. He would run any risk to save them. But all he can do is watch; watch as Chekov's body slowly gives out, watch as Spock loses his mind and McCoy gradually crumples under the pressure.

"Jim," Bones' soft drawl, almost unrecognizable beneath the weary anxiety in his tone, intrudes on Kirk's thoughts. The captain forces himself to look up. It's the first thing McCoy's said in nearly half a day. "Jim…we have to get out of here."

Kirk's temper flares. What does Bones think they've been trying to do for the past five days? Of course they have to get out of this hellhole! He barely manages to bite back a scathing reply, trying to remember they are all under incredible pressure. "I know, Bones," he replies through gritted teeth. _I'm trying_, he adds silently.

"He's _dying_, Jim. Chekov's dying. If we don't get to a med facility soon he's not going to--" McCoy's voice abruptly cracks with passionate frustration. "We've gotta get out of here while I can still _do_ something, damn it!"

Spock cuts in before Kirk can even begin to think of something to say. "Perhaps, Doctor, you would like to make a more constructive suggestion?" His near-monotone is caustic after the intense pathos of McCoy's voice. "Besides opening the lock we cannot force, reaching the window we cannot fit through, or overpowering our significantly stronger and more numerous captors?"

McCoy's hollow eyes flash. Kirk tenses. The situation is potentially explosive. Bones is spoiling for a fight and desperate for any form of emotional release. Spock is weary from severe strain and on edge because the Janusian guards are due to take him away at any moment.

"I'll think on it!" McCoy retorts venomously, making a deliberate dig at Spock's meditations.

Clearly stung, Spock ignores Kirk's warning glare and rises to his feet. "And, no doubt, you will continue to point out the obvious," he observes cuttingly.

McCoy swells with rage. "Listen, you point-eared sonofa—"

"Bones," Kirk interrupts. It is his friend's nickname but Kirk's command tone. "Cool it."

He keeps one eye on the doctor while he surveys the first officer. To his horror, he notices Spock's hands have begun to shake again. The Vulcan takes a menacing step towards McCoy. Kirk swears under his breath, wishing he could just knock their thick heads together and be done with it. He doesn't have the energy to waste on their bullshit. He springs to his feet and steps between the two.

"Spock! Knock it off, both of you," Kirk snaps, warily looking from Spock to McCoy. Spock looks downright dangerous and McCoy is too irate to be aware of his own peril. "That's an order."

After a tense pair of heartbeats, Spock recovers first. He blinks in confusion, glancing around as if he did not remember how he came to be standing in front of Kirk. The Vulcan looks flustered and slightly embarrassed as he retreats to his accustomed corner. McCoy glowers malevolently at his back. Kirk glares at him until he turns his attention back to Chekov. McCoy and Spock are not going to kill each other. The captain allows himself to slump with relief.

A dull throb, a physical manifestation of stress and dehydration, pounds behind Kirk's eyes as he resumes his seat. The captain doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know how much more any of them can take. Spock and McCoy are already at each other's throats, rising tempers held in check only by their mutual respect for Jim. Kirk does not want to think about what could happen if one of them snaps.

God, he is so _tired_ of it all. He sags back against the wall with a heavy sigh. They still have no explanation for their presence here, save Lilith's enigmatic hints and her interest in Kirk. Even that fixation seems to have waned. To his utter bewilderment, the Janusians have ignored him completely since his initial audience with her. Kirk cannot comprehend why his men are being tortured and he is not.

His dull blue gaze is drawn guiltily to Chekov and McCoy at the thought. Bones' eyes are closed. His forehead rests on the knuckles of one hand, which is in turn propped up on a knee drawn towards his chest. His other hand rests lightly on Chekov's body. The doctor is conscious of the too-shallow rise and fall of the boy's chest even as he surrenders to his own fatigue.

The _watching_ is the worst, Kirk decides listlessly as he studies the pair. Listening as Chekov suffered through his initial injuries at Janusian hands had been awful. Helplessly watching as the horrible fever gripped Chekov's body hurt Kirk more than he could have ever thought possible. Now as the young navigator lay dying on the cell floor, Kirk would trade his commission for a hypospray to at least make him comfortable.

Kirk sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Watching Chekov suffer is bad enough for him, but it has to be killing McCoy.

Bones' stubbornness might make him frustrating to deal with at times, but it also makes him one of the best doctors in Starfleet. He refuses to give up on his patients. He fights for them until the bitter end. More often than not, he wins. Being forced to sit on his hands and watch Chekov succumb to some alien disease, losing the boy without even having the _chance_ to fight has to be excruciating for McCoy…it is just like Giacomo again, only drawn out over several hellish days.

Kirk frowns. Just like Giacomo.

Just like Giacomo, who was mortally wounded and left to die.

Kirk's body stiffens as his worn out mind finally grasps the connection. Giacomo wasn't just left to die. He was sacrificed by their captors for the sadistic purpose of torturing McCoy. Bones knew Giacomo was intentionally killed; he suspected Chekov was intentionally infected—_oh god_.

The Janusians aren't just killing Chekov. They are using him to torment _McCoy_.

But _why?_ Kirk finds the reason etched into Bones' haggard face.

What better way to get to the doctor?

Surround a highly skilled, empathic man trained to make decisions and save lives with impossible cases and an empty room. No, not impossible. Just hopeless. Not only is he forced to watch his patient (possibly a close friend) suffer and die, but with his medical training he is uniquely situated to appreciate the process. He knows what is happening to his patient's body and how it feels. He even knows how he could save his dying comrade if he had the right equipment. But all he can do is watch...

Kirk shudders. Another small piece of the puzzle falls into place as his eyes dart back to the navigator. They _would_ choose Chekov. The Janusians had exhibited exactly the same reasoning when they first dragged the terrified Russian from the cell. Chekov's youth made him an excellent subject. It made his plight that much more emotionally difficult to witness.

_Well, for everyone that experienced emotion._ The captain's brow furrows. How does Spock factor into this appalling equation?

He looks over at the Vulcan, who has resumed his attempts at meditation. Spock has retreated so deep into the cell's farthest corner that he is wedged against the wall. Kirk frowns a little. It's like the Vulcan is intentionally avoiding his companions.

Memories instantly flash before his mind's eye. Spock stepping away from Kirk as his hands began to shake moments before he lost control. The terror in his dark brown eyes as he realized what could happen to his companions if he did.

The Vulcan isn't trying to avoid them. He is trying to protect them. Spock puts as much distance as he can between himself and his comrades because is afraid he will lose control and accidentally harm them.

The Janusians are stripping him of his logic. Without that strict logic, he loses the means to control his potentially violent emotions. All they need to do next is provoke those emotions and throw him back in his cell. The Vulcan is forced to attempt to control the most intense feelings he has ever experienced, while worrying about what will happen to his loyal comrades when his mind finally snaps under the strain. And snap it will, if the Janusians have their way.

Kirk's lip curls into a furious snarl. If _Lilith_ has her way.

He can see it now. They aren't just being tortured. The systematic reasoning she uses to rip apart Spock's mind; the tailored brutality she calculates to hit McCoy at his weakest point intimates her goal is far greater.

She is trying to _break_ them.

Kirk needs a moment to fully process the ominous realization. There is no doubt in his mind now as to the purpose of their treatment by the Janusians. But he still does not understand _why_. Why is Lilith trying so very hard to break Spock and McCoy?

By her own admission, Lilith wants _him_. What does she care for Kirk's men? How are they related to her interest in _him_? It makes no sense.

Kirk grits his teeth against his mounting frustration and dredges up the memories of his single conversation with Lilith. She is interested in Kirk. His men are somehow essential. They all have some sort of role to play_._ He can feel the tenuous connection between the facts hovering unseen before him, begging him to reach out and grasp it.

Nothing comes until he glances around at Spock, Chekov, and McCoy. His stomach twists violently; the pangs of guilt at their suffering are so intense they are nearly physical. It hurts to look at them.

It hurts more than he could ever have thought possible.

It hurts _him_ more than he could ever have thought possible.

Icy water floods Kirk's veins. The nebulous suspicions that have swirled around in his head for days waiting for a catalyst suddenly coalesce into one horrific thought.

They are tearing _each other_ apart.

Why is she hurting them and not him? The simple answer is that she _is_ hurting him.

She is using his men to hurt him.

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_Logic (and your illogical emotional investment in the characters) dictates you review this chapter. Reviewers will be rewarded per usual...with chapter 11 previews. :-D  
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	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Oh. My. God. I cannot believe how long it's been since I've posted anything! I am so, so sorry, dear readers, that it has taken this long to get Chapter 11 up! Real life took over, and I just didn't have time until very recently to beat this into shape. I thank you for your patience, and I do hope nobody has had to go to the ER on my account (I'm looking at you, CaptainCow!). Another big thank you to all reviewers; you guys kept me going through the worst of the writers' block and busiest of Real Life. _:) Enjoy! _*cue the usual warnings (some language) and disclaimers (I don't own Trek)*_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 11

Oh _god_.

_She is using his men to hurt him! _

He cannot believe it. He does not want to believe it.

Kirk's hands convulse into fists. His fingernails bite deep into the skin of his palms, the small pain drowned by horror. She was torturing his friends to get to _him_. Lilith has manipulated him as easily as she has manipulated the others.

All she has to do is hurt his men without rhyme or reason. Trapped in the dank cell, he cannot help them. Nothing Kirk can do or say or give (not even his own life) can save them. The fact that his men are suffering because of him, _instead of him_, gnaws mercilessly at his psyche. The captain is even denied the small solace of knowing why they are being tortured. All he can do is _watch_ while the excruciating guilt drives him mad.

She does not need to hurt him physically. The emotional agony is enough. One by one, his comrades succumb to death or insanity. The captain is too focused on his men to think about himself. His own strength fades with them. When they are gone, he will have nothing left.

He looks up, forcing his clenched fists apart. Sunlight twinkles mockingly from at him from the captain's bars on the uniform draped over the dying Ensign Chekov. The icy fury flowing through his body forces Chekov and McCoy into a chilling new focus. They are what Lilith had meant when she had said _hell is other people_. She has used his friends and his comrades to turn her prison into Kirk's private circle of hell.

Kirk's eyes narrow. He _must_ get to her. Lilith has all the cards. She has the communicator, their only hope for returning to the _Enterprise_. She has the answers that Kirk desperately craves. He has nothing but his life, and she will not take it. Frustration eats through his newfound clarity, and Kirk angrily hits the stone floor with the side of a fist. If only he knew what she wanted, he might be able to--

He abruptly stiffens. He _does_ know what she wants.

Lilith wants him broken like the others. Why else would she put him through this hell?

Maybe he does have something to bargain with after all.

He could give her what she wants. Kirk can certainly play down, out, and desperate. He could pretend she has snapped his spirit. Lilith would need to examine him in person to be sure.

A little hiccup of hope begins to rise in his chest. The burly gray guards have been deaf to anything he has hurled at them (be they invectives or cajoles) so far. Perhaps defiance has been the wrong tact to take with them. If Lilith is trying to snap him psychologically, then they almost certainly had orders to look for the opposite. The guards weren't ignoring him, but waiting for signs that her torture is working.

He could pretend like it has. With a little (okay, a_ lot_) of luck, it just might work.

The sound of distant footsteps makes the decision for him. Kirk's head snaps towards the sound. They are coming for Spock. His plan is half-baked at best, but he is out of time.

"Spock!" he hisses.

The Vulcan is crouched in his meditative position. The green hypo marks on his neck stand out lividly against the pale skin visible above the collar of his uniform. For a moment he looks so fatigued that Kirk almost reconsiders his plan. But the first officer's eyes open wearily in acknowledgement, and Kirk is committed.

The captain takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to a whisper. "I need you to pick a fight with Bones."

He knows it sounds insane. He has been doing everything in his limited power to keep his first officer and his CMO from killing each other, and Spock knows it. The Vulcan's dark eyes widen with surprise. His incredulous expression speaks volumes, though he only utters a single word. "_Captain?_"

Idea-images are flashing through Kirk's mind so quickly that he has trouble articulating them. The more fuss McCoy makes, the less closely Kirk himself will be studied. Spock, with his greater Vulcan strength, might be able to overpower one of the guards if he is given the element of surprise.

Kirk rephrases his request, irrationally frustrated that the Vulcan cannot just _follow_ his reasoning. "After they take me out of the cell, pick a fight with Bones."

Puzzled, Spock glances at the doctor. Kirk senses his silent question and shakes his head. Bones will only complain about the risk and demand explanations Kirk does not have time to give. Besides, he will play his part best if he has no idea what Kirk is going to do.

The Vulcan is clearly uncomfortable with the idea of intentionally starting a fight with the unsuspecting, volatile doctor. "Captain…_Jim_—_"_

"Just do it, Spock," Kirk interrupts quietly, cringing at the volume of Spock's voice. "As soon as I'm down the hall. When the guard comes to break it up, do that pinch thing, take his phaser, and get out of the cell. Wait for me as long as you can."

Spock looks away, his face faintly furrowed with indecision and anxiety. He gingerly flexes the mangled knuckles of his right hand. Jim understands. He is afraid that he will be unable to control his own temper if he provokes McCoy. For his part, Kirk is painfully aware of what he is asking of his first officer. If he loses control, the consequences could be fatal for McCoy and psychologically devastating for the Vulcan. The risk is appalling, but Kirk doesn't have a choice. He needs the diversion. Spock needs the phaser.

"She—they—have a _communicator_, Spock!" the captain adds desperately, "One of ours. I think I can get it, but I need your help."

"A communicator?"

The intonation of the question reveals he has made the connection between communicator and escape. Kirk nods, his eyes glued to the Vulcan's grimy face. Spock glances at McCoy, unconsciously flexing his injured hand again. He straightens slightly before looking back at Kirk. His face reluctantly smoothes into an expression close to its usual calm as he musters the last of his strength.

"I am uncertain that particular technique will be effective against Janusians," he observes quietly, in a passable imitation of his usual dispassionate monotone. Kirk can hear still an undercurrent of brittleness in his voice that belies the effort behind the words.

"With any luck, it'll only be _one_ Janusian," Kirk replies. Spock raises an eyebrow. Kirk manages a half-smile at the familiar expression. "Whatever happens, Spock, _don't_ go with them!"

The Vulcan nods his understanding. With a guilty glance at Bones, Kirk settles back against the wall and arranges his features. The far door slams, causing them both to flinch. McCoy wakes with a jolt at the sound. The doctor rubs a hand blearily across his face before turning his attention down to Chekov.

Kirk does not look up as the cell door creaks open. Spock's eyes warily follow as the Janusians step over the threshold. They ignore the pathetic figure slumped beside the door. He is insignificant stripped of his three bars and Command gold.

Shadows bob weirdly across the floor as one of them gestures at the Vulcan. Spock does not move. The Janusian steps towards him with a slight snarl—

An imploring hand seizes the gray-skinned ankle. "Please."

His voice is little more than an abject whisper. The Janusian glances at his comrades before trying to shake the hand off with obvious disgust. Kirk clings to it gamely, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Please…I've had enough…."

McCoy looks up from Chekov in surprise. The captain ignores him for the benefit of the three pairs of crimson eyes now studying his every move. He has to sell the act or they are all going to die in this hellhole. "Please…I've had enough….I can't take any more—"

"What the hell are you _doing_?!"Bones cries, cutting off Kirk's pleas. "They aren't here for _you!_"

Kirk remains deaf to his friend's protest. "Please…take me to her. I've had enough."

He can hear the Janusians muttering to each other softly above him. Shadows bob across the floor as they look from him to McCoy and back again. Kirk cannot understand their words, but there is no mistaking the interest in their voices. He can sense he is close to having them convinced.

McCoy can sense it, too. The alarm in his voice grows into genuine panic. He scrambles to his feet. "Jim, stop! You can't--"

"_Please!"_ Kirk nearly wails, allowing his voice to crack and hating himself for it. "Take me!"

He holds his breath, willing the Janusians to act. McCoy is saying something, but Kirk has ears only for the guards standing over him. Rough hands grasp his upper arm. Kirk relinquishes his grasp on the gray-skinned ankle as they wrench him up from the floor. Bones takes an anxious step closer to his friend. The smallest of the three guards levels a phaser at his chest menacingly.

McCoy looks frantically to Spock, who has been coolly observing the drama from his accustomed corner. "_Do something!_"

"Such as?" Spock's frigid retort is deliberately shot with the veiled contempt that drives McCoy wild. Only Kirk can hear the faint note of reluctance in his voice. McCoy's eyes narrow angrily as the Vulcan stands.

Another pair of hands seizes Kirk's other arm. He sags limply between the two guards, hanging his head. Bones tears his gaze from Spock and looks back towards Jim as the aliens haul Kirk towards the cell door.

"Put him down! _Jim_!" he protests. Spock's hand suddenly grasps his shoulder, preventing McCoy from going after Kirk.

"That is _enough_, Doctor!" the first officer snaps, an edge in his voice. Bones savagely shakes his hand off. Kirk catches a brief glimpse of McCoy rounding furiously on the Vulcan before the cell door slams shut behind them.

It is in Spock's hands now. Kirk tries to swallow his anxiety, praying the Vulcan can keep himself together long enough. God knows Bones is not going to make it easy.

They proceed onward, with two of the Janusians half-dragging, half-marching the captain, and the third bringing up the rear. Raised voices follow them, individual voices and words blurring together. They just reach the far door when McCoy's voice breaks through the echoing interference.

"GET YOUR DAMN HANDS OFF ME, YOU GREEN-BLOODED --!"

His shout is cut off abruptly, and followed by the unmistakable scuffles and yells of a fist fight.

The biggest Janusian steps through the door as if nothing has happened, dragging Kirk with him. The others follow. Kirk's stomach twists anxiously. One of the guards has to go. Lilith has to know the risk that Spock could easily kill one of the others if a fight broke out. Wonderfully agonizing as it would be for Kirk if his men killed each other, they were more valuable alive. She cannot use the dead as leverage against him. He grits his teeth, willing himself to stay relaxed. Surely she would have left orders to this effect…

One of the guards pinioning Kirk finally barks an order to the others. The smallest of the three makes a sound of annoyance and doubles back, unholstering his phaser as he stalks irritably in the direction of the cell. The other two guards drag Kirk inexorably onward, not needing to wait for their comrade while burdened with such a cooperative captive. A wave of silent relief washes over him as he hears the sound of the door behind them being wrenched open. He does not allow himself to think about what might happen if anything goes wrong.

Their destination is closer than the captain would have thought. Perhaps his perception was distorted by the claustrophobic hood from his last visit. An ornately decorated door opens before them, revealing a richly furnished room with blue-gray curtains. Kirk instantly recognizes the curvaceous figure silhouetted against windows glowing with the reddish light of sunset. The knot of anxiety in his stomach eases slightly. His gamble has paid off.

The guards awkwardly dump his passive body near the center of the room. The captain allows himself to sink weakly to the floor, his head hanging in feigned defeat. Lilith steps closer to him with a whisper of fabric and click-clack of feminine heels. Her cultivated air of detached interest has vanished, replaced with sinister excitement.

Kirk's heart begins to hammer nervously in his chest. Bloody highlights gleam from her lacquered nails as she reaches down to grasp his chin. His skin crawls at the touch. He does not resist as she tips his face upward and forces him to meet her predatory golden eyes.

He holds her gaze briefly before ruefully averting his eyes. A defeated man would not look into her eyes for long, and Kirk cannot risk blowing the charade. Lilith's firm grasp keeps his head from moving, though, as she carefully studies his face. Apparently she is pleased with what she finds. Lilith glances over his head at the two underlings standing slightly behind her prize.

A pink tongue moistens her generous lips before she speaks. "Leave us."

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_Damn it man, I'm a writer, not a reviewer! :-)  
_

_As usual, reviews will be rewarded with an e-tribble (a short preview of the next chapter)!_ _And I SWEAR it will not take nearly as long to get Chapter 12 up!_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N_: _Oof, better late than never. Real life has kept this chapter in Rewrite Hell for longer than I care to admit. Thanks again to all of you who read, and especially reviewed, last chapter. More swearing than usual in this chapter, but it's hardly gratuitous. All usual disclaimers apply._

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 12

_Lilith glances over his head at the two underlings standing slightly behind her prize. A pink tongue moistens her generous lips before she speaks. "Leave us."_

Lilith's ravenous eyes instantly return to Kirk's face. "We will not be disturbed," she observes with quiet relish, a slight smile playing around her lips. "I must admit, Captain, I am somewhat surprised to see you. I was not expecting you so… soon."

Kirk barely notices her words. His heart pounds madly against his ribs as he strains his ears for the soft echo of the guards' receding footsteps. Just a few more seconds and he will be alone with the person responsible for killing Giacomo and torturing his crew. The captain furtively eyes her wrist, trembling with anticipation. He is going to have to be very, _very_ fast.

The door slams behind the two guards.

Kirk surges to his feet. He simultaneously seizes Lilith's outstretched wrist and pulls with all his might. With a cry of surprise, she stumbles and slams against his chest. She recovers almost instantly and twists half out of his grasp. He lunges after her. Her free hand darts for her phaser, but Kirk bats it out of her hand before she can bring it into play. Lilith snags a foot around his ankle, dumping him to the ground. Kirk drags her with him as he falls.

They hit the floor hard. Kirk clings to her tenaciously, refusing to relinquish his grip even as his knuckles crunch sickeningly on impact with the ground. She is very strong, but Kirk has the nearly superhuman strength born of five days' anguish and desperation on his side, and he easily gains the upper hand. Lilith soon stops struggling. Elated, Kirk pins her to the floor. He grins down at her triumphantly.

To his surprise, Lilith appears unconcerned by her defeat. "I would not move if I were you," she observes coolly from the floor.

He opens his mouth to make a smart-ass retort, but a hard jab to his stomach stops him. The grin slowly slides off Kirk's face as he follows her gaze down his chest. He swears viciously under his breath at the sight.

Fifteen centimeters of wicked-looking knife rises from her manicured hand to meet his abdomen. The vitreous blade glows sinisterly in the reddish light of the room. His high spirits plummet.

Lilith hadn't quit. She had stopped fighting in order to get the knife. The captain does not dare move. She could gut him before he could blink an eye, let alone wrest the knife from her grasp. He is at her mercy once again.

Lilith smiles up at him from a halo of tousled auburn curls, enjoying Kirk's thunderous expression. "My, my, you have been clever," she croons, goading his impotent fury. "I'll admit, you nearly had me fooled. It's been tried before, of course, but none of the others ever made it so far. You put on a brilliant act, Captain."

She raises her eyebrows suggestively. Kirk seethes as he releases her shoulders. She rises gracefully from the floor, forcing the furious captain backwards onto his knees at knifepoint. The fingers of her free hand gently trace his cheek before threading themselves in the collar of his shirt. A chill races down his spine as the tip of the knife snags ominously in the black fabric.

Lilith's voice is as cool and coy as ever. "I will make a deal with you, James Kirk. If you surrender now, completely and unconditionally, I will let one of your men live. However, you must choose which one. Will it be your friend the doctor? Your loyal first officer? Or the little one? He can still be saved, you know…provided you act quickly enough. "

Sweat begins to break out on Kirk's forehead. There is no good way out of this situation. He would never, _ever_ make that decision, and Lilith knows it. He reminds himself that she wants him alive. She wants him alive, and badly enough to try to force him to bargain. Kirk stares levelly back into her golden eyes. He ignores the menacing knife. She will not use it. "Do you really think I'm going to make that choice?"

Lilith smiles at him. Kirk tenses as she suddenly drags his head close to her mouth by his collar. She speaks so close to his ear that he can feel the warmth of her breath against his sticky skin. "No, Captain," she says softly. "I don't."

There is nothing in her eyes as she drives the knife to its hilt into Kirk's unprotected abdomen.

White-hot pain rips through his flesh. He lets out a strangled cry and feebly tries to pull away. Lilith's fingers tighten on his collar, holding him in place while she methodically twists the knife and snaps her wrist. He feels more than hears the sickening _crack _as the blade shatters from the hilt. Kirk crumples around the wound. The now-useless hilt of her knife clatters to the floor beside him. She pushes him carelessly aside before he can collapse and rises to her feet.

Lilith watches dispassionately from above as Kirk struggles on the floor. The jagged edge of the blade protruding from his skin grazes his shaking fingers as he instinctively reaches for the wound. Even if he wanted to, he cannot get a grip on the slick glass to remove it.

Kirk lies back against the floor, panting. Shit, there is a lot of blood. His hands are covered with it. Bones is going to _kill_ him.

Waves of agony radiate outward from the vicious wound, sapping his strength and clouding his mind. Kirk desperately tries to focus through the pain. He cannot just _lie_ there. He has to save Bones. He has to save them all. His scarlet stained fingers scrabble at nothing as he tries and fails to push himself up. His head lolls as he sags back to the ground, chest heaving with pain and exertion. He dully notes that it would be much easier to just lie there and bleed into oblivion. The floor isn't even that uncomfortable, minus the strangely shaped lump digging into the middle of his back.

Kirk blinks. The _phaser-shaped_ lump.

Realization roars through his shock-and-pain-induced daze.

Lilith's phaser. _He is lying on top of Lilith's phaser!_

She must have pushed him onto it by mistake. Hopeful energy surges through him. Kirk summons his remaining strength and twists around. He ignores the sear of pain from the wound on his abdomen as he maneuvers one hand under his back. Lilith's eyes narrow suspiciously, but it is too late. His fingers have already clasped cold metal. Kirk wrenches the phaser free from beneath his body. Scarcely able to believe his luck, he points the weapon at Lilith and gleefully thumbs the safety.

Shock at this unexpected development only clouds her features for a split second. Lilith composes herself rapidly and addresses him with a reasonable imitation of her favorite coy tone. "Really, Captain, what do you hope—"

"Shut up," Kirk growls as he painfully levers himself into a sitting position. He glances down at his stomach. Shit, there _is_ a lot of blood. Bones is going to kill him. He tries to hold the wound closed around the glass shard with his free hand, cursing. "Where's my communicator?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," Lilith replies airily. Kirk sets the phaser from stun to kill and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. The irony of the gesture is not lost on her. "In the desk," she amends, her tone becoming frosty. A crafty glint steals into her tawny eyes. "Shall I get it for you?"

_Yeah, so you can call your guards? _As if he would fall for that trick."No," Kirk snaps. God, even talking hurts. He keeps the phaser on her and snatches a quick glance over his shoulder. His heart sinks.

The desk is several meters away, and he can't stand. He will have to drag himself across the floor one-handed…while holding the phaser on Lilith. Shit. Kirk steels himself before pushing with his feet and pulling with his free hand against the polished floor. He manages to move forward despite the screams of protest from his wound. The captain grits his teeth. It hurts like hell, but he can push through it. He _has_ to push through it.

He looks back at Lilith. Her body has not moved, but her golden eyes are riveted to his every move with a calculating intensity that makes the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. She is up to something. Kirk makes a show of checking the safety on the phaser before speaking to her.

"No," he repeats, wincing with the effort of speaking. "You're going to…stand right there and tell me…what the hell you want with me."

"But I've already told you, Captain. I told you days ago." Lilith pouts, a false note of petulance in her voice. "You haven't been nearly as clever as I thought."

"_Enlighten_ _me_," Kirk snarls through clenched teeth, his temper flaring at her evasion. He harnesses the anger to drive his body another meter closer to the desk, despite the glass shard tearing deeper into his flesh with every movement.

Lilith studies him for a moment, her head cocked slightly to the side. Her voice is casual. Her eyes are not.

"You are here because I want _you_," she says, giving the final word a slight emphasis, like it has some unusual meaning Kirk has failed to understand. "You were half correct before. I have you…physically. But handsome as you may be, James Kirk, you are so much _more_."

The captain braces himself for another push across the floor. Puzzlement at her vague words gnaws at the edges of his pain-numbed mind, but he has no breath to spare asking questions. He will simply have to wait until she makes her meaning clear.

"I suppose my attraction started that way," Lilith muses. "Physically, I mean. I saw the holonews vids and I knew I had to have you. Starfleet's new, handsome, golden boy. Any captain would be quite an accomplishment, but you, James Kirk, would be the gem of my collection."

_Collection?_ Kirk's skin crawls as he half-pushes, half-drags himself onward. If anything, her words inspire him to get as far away from her as humanly possible. The wound throbs. He resists the urge to rest, even though his limbs feel like lead. He has gone over two meters. He has to be getting close.

Lilith continues, her conversational tone contrasting sharply with the gravity of her words. "I knew it would be a lengthy process. It took nearly six months for the Federation paperwork to clear, even with the fortune I paid out in bribes. It took another three for the _Enterprise_ to become available."

Kirk's flicker of surprise at her mention of the Federation is drowned by excitement as his back finally impacts something hard. He glances over his shoulder. The desk. Thank god. The captain leans tiredly against the solid wood, panting shallowly and holding his wound. He rests the phaser on a knee drawn up towards his chest. Blood slowly begins to leak around his fingers. Kirk grimaces.

He glances up when he realizes Lilith has stopped speaking, just in time to see her predatory eyes rake across his abdomen. "Rest as long as you wish, Captain. I am a patient woman," she remarks with a sinister smile. "I can wait a little longer."

The captain stiffens with sudden realization. Lilith is waiting for him to pass out from pain or blood loss. That is why she stabbed him. She meant to _incapacitate--_notkill-- him. Now she is merely biding her time. When he finally succumbs to his injuries he will be completely at her mercy.

Kirk shudders. Damned if he is going to let that happen! He would rather die.

Galvanized into action, Kirk reaches up for the top edge of the desk and hauls himself slowly to his knees. The vertical motion is too much for his stressed body. His head spins and he reels for a moment. Sensing his vulnerability, Lilith lunges towards him. The captain catches himself before she can get close enough to pose a threat. His fingers clench menacingly on the phaser and she freezes once again.

Kirk laboriously drags himself one-handed around to the other side of the desk. He is careful to position it (and the phaser) between him and Lilith. Christ, he _hurts_. "Get…to the point," he gasps at her between short, painful breaths.

Lilith's eyes narrow as she appraises him. Even five days' torment at her hands does not prepare him for what she has to say.

"Very well, Captain. The point is this: I might have you in my physical control, but your mind is still your own. You are perfectly free to loathe me or worry about your friends. This is unacceptable. I am a jealous woman. I want you all to myself, body _and_ soul."

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_I can't think of anything clever because I'm fried from rewriting this, so here's some food for thought. It takes me 20+ hours to write one of these chapters. It takes you five minutes to review.  
Reviewers shall be rewarded per usual (i.e. previews of next chapter!).  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Oh my it has been a long time in writing this! I've had a lot of excellent developments IRL (accepted to first choice grad school!) that have been keeping me very busy. Thank you for your patience...and hopefully this is worth it. As always, thank you to all my readers and especially those of you who take the time to review. Seriously, they make me very happy! You had a long wait, so now you get a long chapter! Enjoy._

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 13

"_Very well, Captain. The point is this: I might have you in my physical control, but your mind is still your own. You are perfectly free to loathe me or worry about your friends. This is unacceptable. I am a jealous woman. I want you all to myself, body and soul."_

"What?" Kirk asks tersely. His blue eyes dart across the polished surface of the desk. No communicator. He curses under his breath. The device must be hidden in one of the several drawers covering the front of the desk. The captain glances warily back up at Lilith before opening the closest drawer, trying to ignore the awful sense of dread welling into his stomach.

"I could control your body, but what about your mind?" she replies. "I knew you would never devote yourself to me _willingly_. Even if you agreed to give yourself up, it would be to save your friends. It would be an act of loyalty to _them_, not to me. So I have to make you mine."

The first drawer contains nothing resembling a communicator. Kirk swears again and reaches for the next drawer. He rifles through it blindly, unwilling to take his eyes off Lilith for even a moment.

"You might be stubborn, James Kirk, but you are hardly invulnerable. It is not so difficult to shatter the psyche. All it takes is the correct application of force," Lilith continues. Her golden eyes glitter with amusement at his frantic search. "Given time, I _would_ break you down to nothing. After that, I merely put the pieces back together…albeit in a slightly different way. You would come to act as I wish, even think as I wish. Then you would be completely _mine_."

Kirk's blood runs cold as her words filter through his pain-dulled mind. She wanted to brainwash him into being …whatever. Whatever she wanted him to be. She had kidnapped them and tortured them and killed Giacomo with the sole purpose of bending James T. Kirk to her will. Not for any grand scheme of revenge or galactic domination, but simply because she felt like it. He shudders. The weight of the phaser suddenly feels very good in his hand.

"So why'd you drag my men into it?" he grinds out from between gritted teeth.

She studies him for a moment, surprised by the astuteness of the question. "You are right, of course. I could have simply tortured _you_. It is much easier. But it would not work."

Kirk's eyes narrow. "Why not?"

"You aren't that type of man, James Kirk. You care nothing for yourself. I've seen _your_ type before. It would not matter what I did to you. You would take it all, grinning that famous grin, until you died rather than submit."

Kirk stares at her, the communicator momentarily forgotten. Even more disturbing than her motive is the fact that she is inescapably, undeniably _right_. He _knows_ he would rather die than give in to her. If it had just been him, if his friends had not been involved, he would have never cracked. He would have died, and willingly. The thought shakes him to the core.

She smirks at his sudden comprehension. "You see, I could not go after you directly, Captain. The only way to truly _get_ to you was through them. I knew it; you knew it."

Sickened by her callousness, Kirk somehow chokes back his horror and reaches into yet another drawer. The worst part about it is that she is utterly _sane_, he decides. She simply made a plan and executed it.

His fingers suddenly brush metal casing. Kirk's heart leaps into his throat. His hand instantly pounces on the unseen object; yes it is the right size and shape! Intense relief washes over him as he finally withdraws the communicator from the drawer. They are saved.

Lilith watches him coolly. To his great satisfaction, traces of disappointment are evident on her striking features. "It would appear I have underestimated you, Captain."

"You wouldn't be the first," Kirk quips, managing a half-grin. He flips open the communicator and holds it to his lips. The captain looks triumphantly at Lilith as he presses the button to transmit. "Kirk to _Enterprise_."

He waits_._ There is no response.

Icy fingers seize his pounding heart. He takes a breath to steady his voice. "_Enterprise_, come in."

There is no response.

_Oh god. _

Kirk stares numbly at the communicator clutched in his blood-smeared hand. It should have worked. The device does not appear damaged. All the proper indicator lights are on. But it had not worked. Frustration overwhelms him and he slams his hand into the polished wood. Lilith starts at the noise. Kirk's eyes are instantly drawn to the motion. His fingers tighten on the phaser as he looks up at her murderously.

"Really, Captain? We both know you are not going to kill me," she says, a smile hovering around her lips.

Kirk does not rise to her bait. He takes a sharp breath to get a grip on his temper and pulls himself together. While the guards might be accustomed to minor scuffling, they will not ignore the sound of phaser fire. He must be ready for them before he fires.

Lilith is fast, but she had not been fast enough to hide the surprise written all over her face. She had not sabotaged the communicator. She thought it was going to work as much as he did. He forces himself to remember that there are a hundred technical reasons the transmission might not have gone through. It could be as simple as a frequency adjustment.

Kirk tries not to think about the possibility that the Enterprise simply is not listening; that the crew has given up on the search and the ship moved out of orbit.

Either way, he decides he does not want to figure it out with Lilith breathing down his neck. He edges to the side slightly so he has an unobstructed view of the door.

"I think your petition to join the Federation'll be denied," Kirk tells her.

He pulls the trigger before she can make a retort. Her eyes widen with surprise and she crumples to the floor. Even exhausted and dizzy from blood loss, Kirk is still a good shot. He cuts the first guard down before the door has fully opened, and the second as he comes barreling into the room over his comrade's body.

Kirk wrinkles his nose at the acrid odors of ozone and charred flesh as he examines his handiwork. Lilith he shot to wound. Her chest is still moving, and that is all he cares about. The guards he killed without mercy. An unarmed woman is one thing, armed thugs are quite another.

In retrospect, he probably should have tried to stun them. But somehow the only thing he can think about is that Giacomo's two little girls are going to grow up without a father, and he suddenly does not care. And god help any desk-jockey Federation bureaucrat who tells him he should have done otherwise.

A sharp pang from his wound drags him back to the present. The next part is going to be much harder. Intellectually, he knows the door is not far from the desk. But it is too far and too slow to drag himself over the floor, not to mention back to the cell. He can feel his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat. He is going to have to walk. Kirk closes his eyes, bracing himself against the pain to come.

"One," he mutters, wincing, "two--"

He heaves himself to his feet before he can say three. Pain rips through his abdomen, but he manages to stay upright. Kirk clings to the desk until the room stops spinning. He slips the communicator into his pocket before clamping his hand around the wound, trying to keep the glass shard from moving as he staggers for the door.

He manages to make it out of Lilith's chamber and partway down the hall before he is forced to take a rest. Kirk leans against the wall, panting. He grimaces as he removes his left hand, now slick with blood, from the wound. Wincing with pain, he slowly pulls the communicator from his pocket. He slowly (god, everything he does now is slow and painful) resets the device to broadcast on Spock's usual frequency. Praying Lt. Uhura is still on duty, he lifts the communicator to his lips.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_," he tries again. Despite his best efforts, a pleading note has crept in his voice. His head sags tiredly back against the wall. If this doesn't work… "Come on, guys…Kirk to _Enterprise_."

The communicator crackles to life. His heart leaps into his throat. "_Captain?"_ Uhura's voice. The transmission is fraught with static and the voice is shocked, but it is unmistakably Uhura. Thank god. "_Captain… --at you?...Is…--ll right?"_

It is the best sound Kirk has heard in his entire slumps in relief, his eyes closing. "Yes, it's me," he replies. A hubbub of excited voices and planetary static suddenly overwhelms the transmission. Kirk can just make out someone (Scotty) bellow "_QUIET YOU LOT!"_ in the background while Uhura clears the static.

When the channel clears, he finds Uhura's voice has been replaced with a Scottish brogue. "_Sorry aboot tha', sir. Are ye all right? We didnae think we was going ta find yah, after five days an' tha' damnable interfeerance."_

"Giacomo's dead," Kirk says shortly. He leaves the status of the remainder of the away team open to their interpretation. He does not have time or energy to explain about Chekov, or Spock and McCoy. A sharp pang of guilt twists his heart at the thought of the doctor. "Look, Scotty, can you get us out of here?"

"_Aye, sir,_ _it should be nae trouble now tha' I've a signal t' lock on to,"_ the chief engineer says confidently. "_ Give me a minute t' get to th' transporter room an' recalibrate an' I'll beam ya up maeself."_

There is a click as Scott ends the transmission to leave the bridge, but Kirk is not finished. He tiredly thumbs the transmit button again. "_Enterprise?_"

"_Uhura here, Captain."_

"Have a med team standing by," he adds, looking down at his bloody shirt and wincing. "Kirk out."

The captain eases the communicator back into his pocket. Even the small weight of the phaser in his hand seems unnaturally heavy, but he dares not put it away. Kirk clamps his free hand around his wound with a groan, futilely trying to stem the bleeding. He must continue onward.

He manages a few meters before his feet begin to stumble. He reaches to the wall for support, his bloody hand sliding nastily on the stones. He can see the door leading back towards the cell now. It feels kilometers away. The captain grits his teeth and drives himself forward. He can only take a few shuffling paces before pain and exhaustion force him to a halt.

Kirk doggedly tries to take another step forward. His chest heaves shallowly. He _must_ find the others! He stumbles, but manages to catch himself before falling. The wound sears at the sharp movement. It is all he can do to stand, now, and it is not enough. Frustration at his own weakness burns at him.

The echo of footsteps on stone suddenly distracts him from his misery.

He instinctively freezes. Someone is coming. Kirk mutters a curse under his breath. He is in no condition to fight. He has to lean against the wall to stay upright, for Christ's sake. Did he miss a guard? He thought he'd had them all accounted for, but he could not be sure. He grips the phaser with both hands and levels it resolutely at the door.

The footsteps stop. Muffled voices reach his ears. There are at least two of them. Shit. He swallows hard.

The door finally opens. "Hold it!" Kirk snaps, gesturing a little with his phaser.

The tall figure outlined in the doorway pauses. "Captain?"

Kirk's jaw drops. It can't be— "_Spock?_" he asks incredulously.

To his astonishment, Commander Spock lowers his phaser and steps over the threshold. An instant later McCoy's ornery drawl cuts in from somewhere behind the Vulcan's silhouette. "What's going on?"

"We seem to have found the captain," Spock observes. Weak with relief at finding them unharmed, Kirk cranes his neck to see around the doorframe. McCoy stands a few paces behind the Vulcan, with the unconscious Ensign Chekov cradled in his arms.

The captain's mouth twitches a little as the doctor comes into view. McCoy definitely has the beginnings of a black eye, but beyond that he appears none the worse for his part in Kirk's desperate plan. He glances quickly back at his first officer. Judging from the large green bruise forming along Spock's jaw, the doctor managed to give as good as he got.

He lowers his own phaser and glances back at the Vulcan. "Thought I told you to wait."

Spock raises an eyebrow. A faint spark has come back into his dark eyes. "I believe your exact order was to wait as long as I could. I…deemed we had waited long enough."

McCoy snorts. Kirk almost manages a smile. The doctor maneuvers sideways through the door after Spock, being careful to not bash Chekov's head into the doorframe.

"Jim, the next time you tell the hobgoblin to take a swing at me, do me a favor and warn _me_ first," Bones grumbles, sounding irritated but unable to hide his relief at seeing Kirk again. Spock bristles a little at "hobgoblin", but not much more than usual and not nearly enough to concern the captain at this point.

"Sorry about that, Bones," Kirk says weakly. McCoy shrugs as if to say _we're out, aren't we?_, but Kirk can tell from the doctor's expression that he's going to be hearing about this one for a long, _long_ time. Unfortunately, Bones catches the hitch of pain in his voice. His hawk-like eyes spot the blood on Kirk's hands and rapidly zero in on the glass shard sticking out of his abdomen.

"_Good God_, man, you're--!" McCoy exclaims. He automatically steps closer to peer at the wound, but he can do nothing but shrug a little in frustration because his arms are full with the navigator. Spock's eyes crinkle with concern. The captain stubbornly waves them both off.

"Yeah, Bones, I'm aware," Kirk interrupts wearily, fumbling for the communicator. He raises the heavy communicator to his lips. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. Scotty?"

"_Aye sir, we're locked on an' ready to transport!"_

"Get us the hell out of here."

The heavenly white lights of the transporter beam swirl around them, followed by a familiar, slightly tingling sensation. A moment later, his feet touch solid ground. Kirk takes a breath. The air is warm and dry, with that faintly canned smell peculiar to a new starship. He opens his eyes.

They are surrounded by the pristine walls of the transporter room of the _USS Enterprise_. Chief Engineer Scott sits at the transporter controls, his friendly face split into an enormous grin. Lt. Uhura stands beside him, pale with anxiety but making a valiant effort to remain composed. The requested med team is waiting in the opposite corner in a little knot of blue uniforms. McCoy is in motion the moment their feet are safely on the pad. He rushes past Kirk with Chekov in his arms, already bawling orders at the med team. Kirk can finally relax. They are safe.

The communicator slips from his nerveless fingers. Kirk's knees buckle. Spock catches his arm as he falls. The room tilts woozily to the side as hands lower him gently to the floor. The metal of the transporter pad is cool against his sweaty cheek. Anxious voices murmur overhead, fading slowly as his eyes close. He does not care. It is finally over.

They are home.

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_Well, I'd say that's all, folks...but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. Stay tuned. And please review! __ I reward reviews!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: OMG! I'm back! I have survived the first semester of grad school and have high hopes for the new year. My abject apologies for taking so long to continue this poor neglected story, but here you are! Right now it looks like there will be this chapter, and two more to go. I hope you enjoy; this is a bit longer than usual but there was a lot to cover!_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 14

Even under the best conditions, rifling through anyone's intestines was a pain, Dr. Leonard McCoy decided as he collapsed into his office chair with a heart-felt sigh. He slumped forward onto his elbows wearily, easing his bruised face into his hands. Doing so under emergency circumstances was far worse. Piecing his best friend's innards back together on so little sleep he could hardly see straight had been the stuff of nightmares.

At least Jim was out of danger now. He had been badly wounded, much worse than McCoy had first thought when he had seen his friend staggering down the dim hallway of the Janusian prison. What he believed to be a single wound had turned out to be far more complex. Kirk had been stabbed with a glass blade, which had been deliberately snapped off inside his body and shattered into several smaller pieces. Those shards razed the flesh around them every time Jim moved, working deeper into his abdomen. McCoy had spent several hours fishing bits of glass out of the wound and repairing the additional damage caused by the razor-sharp fragments.

He closed his eyes against the pounding in his skull. God, he'd spent so many hours staring at Jim's wounds that the whole mess felt burned into his retinas. The doctor grimaced and massaged his temples. Whoever had stabbed Jim had been either extremely lucky or extremely clever. His injuries were serious, but not immediately lethal. A centimeter or so to one side could have changed that. McCoy supposed he should be thankful.

The doctor had no idea why Kirk had ended up with a knife in his gut. He was curious (mostly so he knew what to bawl Kirk out for later), but knew he wasn't likely to find out anytime soon. Jim was still unconscious and he was going to stay that way until McCoy decided otherwise.

Spock was the only other member of the away team capable of speech at the moment. He had barely spoken two words to the doctor since their fight and his terse recitation of Jim's escape instructions. McCoy had not had time to question him properly, but he got the impression that Spock hadn't known much more about anything than he did.

The Vulcan was long gone from Sickbay. He had escaped Janusia more or less physically unscathed. McCoy had his hands full between Kirk and Chekov, so he had passed Spock off to that new junior doctor, M'Benga, to be checked out. Of course, the first officer still wasn't approved for duty (that was one responsibility reserved for McCoy himself), but that probably wouldn't stop him from going to the bridge. Spock was just as pig-headed as Jim about such things.

McCoy knew that the decision to release the Vulcan had raised a few eyebrows around Sickbay, but he trusted the junior doctor's judgment. M'Benga had experience with Vulcans and he wouldn't have let Spock leave Sickbay if he thought the first officer was liable to blow his top again. McCoy snorted. Either way, he was out of Sickbay. The duty-obsessed Vulcan was Scotty's problem now.

Come to think of it, he should probably call up to the bridge and let the acting captain know Kirk was going to be okay. McCoy reluctantly pried his head loose from his hands. He stubbornly stifled a yawn and reached out to thumb the comm system. "McCoy to bridge."

"Uhura here, Doctor, go ahead."

"Tell Scotty that the Captain is out of surgery," McCoy hesitated for a moment, weighing whether or not to say anything about Chekov. He had nothing good to say about the navigator's condition. "He'll be fine," he finished lamely, trying to cover his pause. Uhura murmured a slightly disappointed-sounding acknowledgment, but did not question him. The communications expert could read between the lines well enough.

McCoy sighed after he cut the transmission. The lack of information was going to cause a fuss on the bridge. Ensign Chekov was popular among both the officers and crew, and they would quickly realize that no news was not good news. But there just wasn't much he could tell them, even if he had wanted to.

The doctor grumbled a curse under his breath. His relief at Jim's successful surgery had been short lived due to that damned Russian kid. He was initially hopeful when his staff had somehow managed to stabilize the ensign until he had patched Kirk up. Then he'd seen the kid's scans.

Ensign Chekov was in very bad shape and he only seemed to be getting worse. He suffered from severe dehydration and an extremely high fever. Most of the unconscious teenager's body was covered with grotesque purple bruises, some of which bled openly in places. He had lost a nearly critical level of blood through extensive hemorrhaging both in his skin and internally, though his brain seemed to have been miraculously spared. As if the situation were not grim enough already he had four broken ribs, a fractured right collarbone, and a couple of broken fingers.

Even though McCoy had ordered every test he could think of, so far they had only determined that Pavel Chekov was slowly but surely bleeding to death. They'd hit the poor kid with clotting factors, transfusions, an intense barrage of broad-spectrum antibis and antivis, but all they had done was slightly slow the deterioration of his condition. Until they could determine what was ravaging his young body, McCoy was reduced to treating the symptoms. And not very effectively, at that. It was frustrating as hell.

The doctor gritted his teeth. They hadn't even been able to patch up Chekov's other injuries. Every time they tried to close a wound or knit a fracture, it would work apart again within a few hours. The worst part was that they still had no idea _why_.

McCoy had three of the _Enterprise_'s labs working on a last-ditch series of tests, but results would not be ready for another few hours. He was privately worried Chekov wouldn't last that long. The doctor sagged forward again into his palms with a grimace. God in Heaven, he hadn't been this exhausted since the _Narada_.

He didn't even realize he had fallen asleep until one of the nurses burst wildly into his office, calling his name. McCoy's head jerked up from the desk. _Someone had better be dying_, he thought sourly, rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes. Even before he finished the thought, he realized he could hear the shrill squeal of alarms coming from the ward. Someone was dying, and there were only two people it could be. The doctor swore under his breath and bolted for the ward.

People rapidly converged on Chekov's biobed. Even from across the room, McCoy could see the dreaded flat line on his monitors. Adrenaline sliced through his mind-numbing exhaustion.

The kid was dead.

Time slowed as he joined the frenzy of activity around Chekov. The crowd parted for McCoy. The ear-splitting squeal of alarms seemed muted, as if coming from a great distance. He felt his mouth move, and heard his voice giving instructions from far away, but the only sound he was truly aware of was his heart pounding out the words _not the kid not the kid not the kid oh god not the kid not the kid... _

Pavel Andreievich Chekov was dead for exactly two minutes and fifty-three seconds before they managed to revive him. McCoy could breathe again. God, it had been close.

Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm the doctor as he slumped wearily against the bulkhead near the foot of Chekov's biobed. After another blood transfusion, a lot of drugs, and some Kirk-magnitude luck later, the kid was weak but stable again. Something had gone wrong with the drug cocktail keeping him alive and he had gone into cardiac arrest. They had cobbled together another concoction out of second-line and experimental drugs, but it was a very temporary solution at best. McCoy hoped to God the labs would have something soon. Chekov had more systems failing than working now. The doctor squeezed his temples vainly against the pounding in his skull. They needed a cure or an antidote, and fast.

"Doctor McCoy?"

"What?" McCoy growled, opening his eyes. Nurse Chapel was looking at him with an eyebrow raised Spock-fashion.

"Looks like you need this more than I do," she said, and handed him a steaming cup of black coffee. McCoy accepted it and sipped gratefully, ignoring the protests of his coffee-saturated stomach. He blinked down at his chrono and realized with a jolt that he'd lost three minutes. Christ. He'd actually dozed off _standing_.

"The Captain is waking up," the blonde woman said as she circled back around Chekov's biobed. She studied his monitors briefly and took a seat by his side. "Annie told me to let you know."

McCoy glanced at his chrono again in surprise. It was later than he thought. He could see Chapel eyeing him with concern, but she said nothing. She seemed to understand why McCoy insisted on dealing with the kid's case despite his total exhaustion. "Yeah. Thanks, Christine."

He glanced over at Chekov, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. The kid was a mess. What little of his skin that was not black and blue was sickly pale, his wide eyes shut and swollen above the respirator mask covering his mouth and nose. His face looked puffy from all the fluids they were pumping into him. As he watched, Chapel reached through the sterile field and softly stroked Chekov's sandy curls. McCoy swallowed hard and looked away. The kid was in good hands. He could leave for a minute.

The doctor dragged himself to his feet and headed over to Kirk's bed. Nurse Annie Katenga hovered nearby. She gave McCoy a tired smile. He glanced down at Kirk. Jim was still pale, but his vitals were strong. It appeared the surgery had been successful...though McCoy had long since learned to rule _anything_ out with Jim Kirk.

Kirk's eyes moved beneath their lids, and he stirred slightly. A moment later his blue eyes opened. The young captain glanced from side to side, looking disoriented. He quickly recognized Sickbay, however, and visibly relaxed. McCoy smiled in spite of himself.

"Think that's the first time I've ever seen you happy to be in Sickbay, Jim," he said. "How y'feeling?" He only asked out of habit. Kirk's previous flirtations in Sickbay were well-known to the staff, and Kirk had to feel truly lousy if he couldn't even muster the energy to wink at the gorgeous Nurse Katenga.

McCoy buzzed him with the tricorder and glanced over the readings. _All systems go, thank God._ He folded his arms across his chest, briefly relishing a feeling of triumph. "Next time you decide to get stabbed, do your favorite surgeon a favor and pick something that doesn't bust itself to pieces."

Kirk's throat worked and he tried to lick his lips with a dry tongue. "Don't, Jim," McCoy said warningly, but as usual the captain did not listen.

"Chekov?" Kirk managed to croak.

McCoy felt the smile stiffen on his lips as his feeling of triumph wilted. It was typical of Jim to be more concerned about the others than he was about himself, but McCoy did not relish telling him he was afraid the navigator would not make it through the night.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "He's in real bad shape, Jim. We're doing what we can."

As he was speaking, Chapel caught his eye and nodded towards the door. McCoy recognized the blue-uniformed Lt. Cramer, one of the lab techs, as he walked into Sickbay. Cramer paused, looking for the CMO. McCoy squeezed Kirk's knee gently. "Get some sleep. I'll keep you posted."

Jim's eyes closed. The doctor bit back another sigh as he turned away from his friend. He signaled the lieutenant with a wave and strode towards the younger man. The young officer quailed visibly as McCoy approached. The doctor's heart sank. People with good news didn't _quail_. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Well, spit it out."

The lieutenant muttered something about results being inconclusive. McCoy squeezed the bridge of his nose and prayed for patience. It didn't work.

"Don't know?" The last of his frayed nerves finally snapped. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, DON'T KNOW?" he bellowed at the quaking lieutenant.

He ignored the stares from across Sickbay. McCoy did not have time or energy to be diplomatic. He skewered the scientist with a green glare until the kid (_God, they were all kids, _he thought venomously) found his voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but we just need more time. Everything came back negative; cultures, the Starfleet poison database, _everything_, sir. All we've got left is molecular sequencing, and that alone could take another day, if we're lucky—"

Christ Almighty. Molecular sequencing meant they were literally back at square one. McCoy gritted his teeth. He tried to remember that it wasn't the kid's fault; that he had certainly not wanted to tell the formidable CMO something he did not want to hear; that he had drawn the short straw of rank and the duty had fallen to him-

McCoy felt his body swell with rage anyway. "Another day? Another _day_? We don't have another day! He doesn't have another day! A few hours, maybe, if we're lucky! He's _dying_, Lieutenant!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the movement of the door as someone entered Sickbay. With a fresh slap of irritation, the doctor recognized the point-eared silhouette of Spock as he approached Kirk's biobed and was intercepted by Nurse Katenga. McCoy's scowl deepened. Losing his temper in front of Jim or his own staff was one thing, but McCoy particularly loathed losing it in front of the Vulcan. Spock didn't need to yell at his people.

He looked back at the terrified lieutenant. "I want you to speed it up. Yes, I know it's difficult!" he snapped before Cramer could open his mouth to protest. "I don't care if you have to get every damn lab on this ship involved, get people out of their beds, whatever. But you figure out what this is and God help you all if you don't have results by morning!"

The kid stammered out a "yes, sir" and fled for the comparative safety of the lab. Katenga was gesturing in his direction now, waving Spock towards him. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, feeling nettled. "Did you need something, _Commander_?" he asked acidly before the Vulcan could speak.

Spock froze. He suddenly looked stricken, but the expression was gone almost before McCoy could register it. It was weird as hell seeing any expression on that face, McCoy thought. He wondered for a very brief moment if he had been too nasty.

"I thought I might be of assistance in determining the cause of Ensign Chekov's ailment."

There was something different about Spock's voice, something in the inflection that suggested hope, fear…God, who knew? Jim was better at this sort of thing; he could read the hobgoblin better than anyone on the ship. McCoy fought down his instant urge to tell the Vulcan to butt out and get back to his quarters. As science officer, he didn't need to ask to be included in the lab work, but he was asking anyway.

The doctor reluctantly swallowed a scathing retort. Even he acknowledged that Spock undoubtedly had the best scientific mind on the ship. Much as it galled him to accept Spock's help, his feud with the first officer was certainly not worth Chekov's life. "Yeah, sure. Find Cramer, he can fill you in."

Spock nodded and turned to leave. McCoy's instinctive dislike of the Vulcan warred ferociously with his Georgia manners.

"Spock?" The word burst out of him. The first officer paused and turned to look at McCoy.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Thanks," McCoy said, and to his surprise, he actually meant it.

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_Please review! Reviews = next chapter previews_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Ugh sorry this has been reposted like three times, I am having issues with the new website design. At long last, here is chapter 15! And wow, long chapter is LOONG, but I didn't think you readers would mind too much. :) As always, thank you so much for your support, your reviews, and your eternal patience! I had a lot of trouble with this chapter because Spock is just hard to write...and slightly drugged/traumatized Spock is even more difficult. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter. There's only one more to go now._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Trek. Sad face.  
_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 15

The Captain's ready room, Spock noted, felt decidedly empty without Kirk's dynamic presence. He brushed the odd thought from his mind and looked back across the table at Lt. Cmdr. Scott and Lt. Uhura. Scott wore a quizzical expression, while the corners of Nyota's eyes crinkled slightly with concern. The Vulcan self-consciously reached up and rubbed the swarm of greenish hypo marks on his neck with his uninjured hand.

Dr. M'Benga had told him that he had never seen any Vulcan survive a higher concentration of psychoactive drugs than was currently churning through his body. Some quirk of his half-human physiology had preserved his sanity by allowing him to react to the drugs in ways that were impossible for a full-blooded Vulcan. M'Benga had explained there was little that could be done about the drugs. Spock would just have to cope with their unnerving psychological effects until his body could metabolize them away.

They had been at the table in the Captain's ready room for just over an hour. He had already related what had happened on Janusia to the best of his ability, beginning with the fateful dinner and finishing with their arrival in the transporter room. Spock tried to stick to the events as much as possible, attempting to avoid painful memories that might trigger another dangerous emotional outburst. Lt. Uhura diligently took notes as he spoke, even though the conversation was recorded. The only reason she had come to his debriefing was to offer her support. He was grateful.

The half-Vulcan blinked back to the present. The two humans were still looking at him expectantly. He must have missed another question during his strange reflections. The drugs were making him disconcertingly vulnerable to distraction.

"I apologize, could you repeat the question, Captain Scott?" he asked.

Spock felt an irrational dislike of tacking "captain" in front of Scott's name. A long-buried, superstitious human corner of his mind nagged that it was somehow unlucky to do so with Captain Kirk seriously injured down in Sickbay. Scott himself did not appear completely at ease with his temporary promotion either, because he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at Lt. Uhura. The half-Vulcan frowned slightly. This did not seem correct. Perhaps it was the deviation from his own usual behavior that was disturbing the engineer- Spock forced the unbidden thoughts from his mind and tried to focus on Scott.

"I think we've just aboot got the facts straight, Mr. Spock," Scott said, "All but one thing. Why woul' the Janusians do sech a thing?"

Spock stared. How could he possibly explain the hours of torment he spent trying to divine the logic behind their capture? He gave himself a mental shake and fell back on simple fact. "We were never told the purpose of our incarceration, nor interrogated," he replied. "We learned there was some sort of interest in the Captain. I have reason to believe the Captain figured it out," he observed. "Something he said when he was planning our escape."

Scott and Uhura exchanged significant looks. Spock's eyes narrowed slightly, but he was not given the chance to inquire. Scott cut him off with the usual noises about resting and so on as he firmly ushered Spock out of the ready room. Activity on the bridge stopped as everyone turned to look at him. Spock glanced around, feeling a strange longing for the familiarity of his post at the science station. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the viewscreens and almost started.

No wonder everyone was staring at him. The Vulcan stoicism to which he was accustomed to seeing on his features was gone, replaced by a strangely hunted expression on an unfamiliar pale, hollow face marred by a large green bruise along the jaw line. Lt. Cmdr. Scott spared him further scrutiny by the bridge crew by leaping into the captain's chair and immediately quizzing various stations about the _Enterprise_'s status. Spock fled into the turbolift as soon as it arrived.

He stared at the blank insides of the turbolift doors with relief, allowing the lack of any stimuli to soothe his fatigued psyche. He was seeing the world through a lens of emotion that he had not experienced since childhood. He had forgotten how draining it was. Logically, he knew it was the drugs. Spock's eyes half closed. It had to be the drugs. He breathed deeply, grasping for a modicum of Vulcan serenity. He would be confined to Sickbay (if not the brig) if he had another outburst.

The turbolift chimed impatiently, a mechanical reminder for him to select a deck. Spock initially moved to select his quarters, but hesitated. Nyota would be on duty for several more hours. His rooms would thus be empty, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Spock did not find the idea of hours of reflection appealing. His left eyebrow crept upward with the thought. Mere hours ago he would have given anything to be alone, and now he wanted to be anything but. How typically _human_.

With his quarters ruled out until much later, his options were few for the present. He had been expressly forbidden from his station on the bridge. The half-Vulcan frowned slightly. His orders had said nothing about the labs, and he had heard Dr. McCoy was having trouble diagnosing Ensign Chekov's strange ailment. Spock reached out and selected the appropriate deck. Perhaps he could be of assistance in Sickbay.

A freshly shaven Dr. McCoy glanced up from his PADD when Spock entered his office in Sickbay the next morning. He looked better, though still retained the peculiar hollow look around his eyes that the survivors all sported, a mark of the weight loss they had experienced on Janusia.

"You're supposed to be in your quarters, _resting_," the doctor accused, frowning his disapproval at the first officer.

"I merely wished to inquire about Ensign Chekov's status this morning," Spock stated before the doctor could continue his rebuke.

"Well, he's not any worse. That's about all I expected at this point," McCoy replied. "The antidote y'all cooked up seems to be working. I still can't believe its poison, though. I thought only a hemorrhagic fever would go after the circulatory system like that…" He trailed off into a pointed glare at the first officer. "Don't change the subject. If I catch you on the bridge again at all in the next three days, I _will_ sedate your Vulcan ass into next week."

"Mr. Scott required my presence for debriefing. I am aware I have not yet been approved for duty, Doctor."

"Yeah, that's never stopped you before," he growled. "I mean it this time, Spock. You need to get some rest."

Spock raised an eyebrow. He thought it a bit rich to be admonished to rest by the doctor who had worked himself to near collapse and had only retreated to his office sofa after Nurse Chapel threatened to drug his coffee. He was formulating an appropriately dry retort when Acting Captain Scott burst into Sickbay. The engineer looked harassed. "I need t' speak wi' th' Captain!"

McCoy jumped up to intercept him with a warlike scowl on his face. "No, Scotty. It's out of the question."

"Do ye really think I'd be askin' if it werenae damned important, McCoy?" Scott said heatedly.

"No, I don't, but the answer is still the same. I'm not risking Jim's health for some desk jockey-"

"Desk jockey?" Scott spluttered, his brogue thickening with his frustration. "Doctor, I joost had to tell two _admirals_ t' go to hell! Under threat o' court-martial, I might add! It's been thirty-six hours; I must have summat t' give Starfleet-"

"He nearly _died, _Scotty!" McCoy spat, his voice rising. "Don't any of you get it?"

"Blast it, McCoy! You an' the Vulcan both tol' me tha' Jim's the only one who has any inklin' what actually happened down there an' there's naught I can do til I know maeself!"

In the nearby ward, Spock saw Kirk's eyes flicker open. He glanced from the animated pair to the Vulcan, questioning. Spock had no answers for him. It was the first he had heard of any issues with Starfleet. He felt a prickle of annoyance at his lack of inclusion in the problem. Scott was still spluttering indignantly when McCoy noticed that they had awoken Kirk and his scowl deepened.

"Now look what you did," he growled at Scott. He grabbed the engineer firmly by the arm and dragged him fully into his office, out of Jim's earshot. Spock followed discreetly, feeling Kirk's frustrated gaze on his back. "A few more days rest and I'll consider-"

"A few days—For god's sake, man, he shot their _queen_!" Scott hissed.

"_What?_"

"The Janusians are raisin' hell with the Federation because our captain appairently shot and wounded their queen," the engineer explained exasperatedly.

Spock cleared his throat. "While his methods are often unorthodox, I do not believe the Captain would have done so without exceedingly good cause," he observed.

"I'd wager getting stabbed _was_ exceedingly good cause," grumbled McCoy.

"I dinna ken what Kirk did or didna do!" Scott cried. "But Command wants us to go back and sort i' out."

"_Christ_," McCoy swore. Spock watched the blood drain from the doctor's face. A tight, cold sensation began to knot in the pit of the Vulcan's own stomach. "Are they insane? We can't go back!"

"Hells, McCoy, d'you think I want to?" Scott snapped. "I've been puttin' them off as best I can, but it's nearly two days now and I've run out of excuses short o' breachin' the warp core. Pike and Archer've took up fer us but they cannae do much...someone is leaning on Command very hard t' settle this."

McCoy squeezed the bridge of his nose, clearly torn but unwilling to compromise what he felt was best for his patient. "Scotty…"

Spock left them to their ensuing argument. Someone high in the Federation government had to be severely pressuring Starfleet for Command to even consider sending the _Enterprise_ back into the now-hostile Janusian environment. He forced himself to quash the icy fear knotting in his stomach. They would not go back to Janusia.

He made his way softly towards Kirk's biobed. There was another method of obtaining Kirk's testimony for Starfleet, but it was sure to be met with resistance by the stubborn CMO. He glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that McCoy was not looking in his direction. The doctor remained safely wrapped up in his argument with Mr. Scott.

"Captain," he acknowledged Kirk in a low voice.

Kirk looked questioningly at the first officer, his blue eyes wreathed in purple circles of exhaustion. His gaze flickered to McCoy and Scott, who were just out of range of his human ears. Even that small movement seemed to tire the wounded captain. Spock's left eyebrow crept upward. Perhaps Kirk really was in no condition to speak to anyone.

"The Janusians have protested to the Federation. Starfleet Command wishes us to resolve the situation," Spock explained succinctly, "They wish us to return to Janusia."

Kirk stiffened and the little color that had begun to creep into his sunken cheeks drained away. His throat worked convulsively and he tried to push himself up with one hand. Spock put a hand on his shoulder and glanced warily towards the doctor. Kirk followed his gaze and sank weakly back onto his pillow.

"Starfleet does not understand what occurred on the surface, Jim," He added. "There was no time to explain then, but I must know what you discovered."

The captain studied him for a moment, then signaled ascent with a tiny nod. He tensed slightly as the half-Vulcan's fingers brushed across his face to find the psi points. Spock could hear McCoy's outraged yell as his consciousness merged with Kirk's, but it was too late for the doctor to interfere.

Almost before the meld had begun, his fingers twitched and the link vanished.

Intellectually, Spock knew that emotional transference was a side effect of the meld, but that knowledge was not enough to prepare his mind for the torrent of emotion that slammed into him like a physical blow. The half-Vulcan's knees buckled and he found himself clinging to the biobed for support. Spock could still feel bits of Kirk rattling around in his mind and his own thoughts had become nearly indistinguishable from the captain's. His teeth gritted together in a gesture that was both reassuringly familiar and disconcertingly _alien_. He should have never attempted the meld while in his compromised mental state.

Kirk's pained reasoning and his own observations instantly wove themselves into a single coherent narrative. He felt his stomach lurch.

They had all been _used_.

Lilith's plot was so simple, so horrifically obvious (like many logic puzzles, a Vulcan corner of his mind observed), that Spock was amazed he had not seen it before. He could feel the human part of his mind rebelling violently against her utterly repellant strategy, even while the Vulcan part analyzed it for its efficacy. How could he have possibly seen what she was up to; he could barely fathom such a twisted plot. He blinked and realized that he had _tears_ in his eyes.

"Spock!" McCoy's furious voice finally sliced into his thoughts, "you goddamn fool hobgoblin, what did you do to Jim?"

Spock ignored him. He staggered to his feet and tried to rein in his reeling psyche. He sensed the doctor was particularly upset because Kirk was unconscious again, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had a much more pressing problem in the form of Starfleet Command.

"You did some sort of weird Vulcan mind mumbo-jumbo didn't you?"

"The mind meld hardly qualifies as mumbo-jumbo, Doctor," Spock retorted. The half-Vulcan pushed past the doctor and the very puzzled engineer, heading for the computer terminal in McCoy's office. The doctor swore again and seized his arm.

"Commander-" Scott started, his eyes darting anxiously between the furious doctor and the half-Vulcan.

"Spock, you tell me what the hell is going on right this second, or so help me-"

"Shut up, Bones," Spock snapped, removing the offending hand with a violent shake of his arm. Scott and McCoy stared at him, astonished. McCoy's other hand shot towards the hypospray near Kirk's bed, while Scott's face creased with concern. They both knew how he had mangled his hand on Janusia, and McCoy in particular now had a healthy fear of Spock's temper.

A few of Kirk's favorite curses flashed unbidden across his mind. Being sedated until next Tuesday was the last thing Spock needed right now. With a titanic effort, he pulled himself together. "Doctor," he corrected himself. He shook his head slightly and added: "I now know why we were imprisoned on Janusia."

McCoy lowered his hand slightly. Scott shot him a warning glance before he said: "Explain yourself, Mr. Spock."

"We were used. We were being tortured by the Janusian queen to emotionally compromise the Captain. She intended to kill us all and keep him prisoner to unknown end." The half-Vulcan ignored McCoy's astonished splutter and Scott's exclamation. "He resisted. She stabbed him, and he shot her to escape."

The ever-practical engineer recovered first. "Can ye prove this?" he asked Spock.

"I believe so."

"Then I'll expect ye on the bridge to make your report within th' hour, Mr. Spock. In th' mean time, I'll go an' see if we cannae coax a wee bit more out the warp drive. Th' farther we get from there, th' better!"

The engineer turned on his heel and left Sickbay. Spock continued into McCoy's office and leaned uninvited over the doctor's desk. His fingers flew over the terminal's buttons. "Computer, locate all Starfleet records for Janusia and the surrounding system for the past five years. Correlate with personnel listed as missing or killed in action for the same time period."

McCoy had followed him. "What're you doing?" the doctor asked.

"The Captain believes we were not the first to be tortured at her hands," Spock said. McCoy's shudder was audible. "This should be reflected in the casualty statistics for the system."

"I don't get it…I get the kid, Jim…hell, I even get _you_…but I was never tortured," McCoy mused.

Spock looked at him pointedly over the terminal. "Were you not?"

It was obvious to him now that he had seen Kirk's thoughts. Perhaps it was not so obvious to the overly-emotional doctor. The half-Vulcan's gaze drifted over McCoy's shoulder, towards a place in the ward. The doctor craned his neck around to see Chekov's biobed.

"What?" he spluttered, looking back at the half-Vulcan before his eyes darted back to Chekov's unconscious form. "The kid? What about the kid?" Realization gradually dawned on his hollow face. His fingers clamped onto the edge of the desk until the knuckles went white. "No way...nobody could be…that's totally _sick_…Oh _God._"

The computer finally chirped, drawing Spock's attention away from the shell-shocked doctor and back to the screen. He frowned slightly at the display. While the total casualty numbers were similar, the number of personnel listed as _missing_, rather than _killed_, in action for the Janusia system was a standard deviation above the mean for systems of similar planetary composition and cultural advancement. He would need to research further, but to first approximation it appeared the Captain's information was sound.

"Spock," the doctor said in a choked voice, dragging the half-Vulcan out of his numerical reverie. Spock looked up. McCoy had gone so pale that the first officer was almost afraid he would faint. "Why didn't Jim say anything about this to us?"

Spock straightened up from his awkward crouch in front of the terminal. "In the end there was little time," he said, avoiding the doctor's gaze. His own stomach twisted horribly as he replayed Kirk's memories. "He had suspicions before, but at that time he…he thought we both had rather enough on our minds."

McCoy sank into a nearby chair. Spock left him there with his head in his hands, while he went to continue his research and contact Starfleet Command.

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_Please review! I'm still rewarding reviews with chapter previews, even for the last chapter! :)_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: So, at last, we come to the end of Seventh Circle! Dear god, I hope this chapter is up to snuff. _

_I'd like to thank everyone who was kind enough to review the last chapter! I've been so absurdly busy with work this summer that I just couldn't get around to responding to the last set of reviews, and I'm very sorry! I'd also like to thank all my readers, particularly you lot who have been around since the very beginning of this story two years(!) ago. Thank you all for reading, and reviewing! I sure wouldn't have been able to finish this story with out you. It's been quite a journey! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! :)_

_And now, the long awaited conclusion of Seventh Circle...  
_

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**Seventh Circle**

Chapter 16

Chekov is dead.

The last time they opened the door was to take away the kid's body. He closes his eyes against the burn of tears. Spock is gone and Bones is gone and Jim is alone in the dark. He reaches up with his bound hands and swipes angrily at his eyes. He must not show any weakness now.

His hands smear wetly against his face; the cords binding his hands have bit into his skin until blood runs down his wrists. Kirk strains at the cords out of sheer frustration. The door opens and suddenly he is not alone. He scrambles away from the door but his back is against the sweating wall and there is nowhere to go.

The light burns his eyes after so long in the dark but he can still make out her hateful form silhouetted against the windows when they dump him on the polished floor. Lilith smiles down at him, her golden eyes untouched by the expression.

"Go to hell!" he snarls at her.

Someone kicks Kirk viciously in the ribs for this blatant disrespect. He topples over but manages not to make a noise. Lilith laughs. "Bring in the other one."

"Get your hands off me!" McCoy's curses fill the air as he too is dumped on the floor at Lilith's feet. He is torn and bloody and desperate. She grabs him roughly by the hair and hauls him to his knees. He struggles uselessly against her iron grip. Jim's heart is in his throat. There is a knife in her free hand. Bones cannot yet see it.

"I warned you not to be so attached, James Kirk," she says silkily, pressing the glassy blade to the doctor's throat.

McCoy's eyes are fixed on him, wide with fear. "Jim!"

"No, don't-" Kirk begins to protest but she has already drawn the knife across his throat.

"BONES!" he screams in horror, but it is too late. His friend struggles in a growing pool of his own blood and there is nothing he can do-

"_Jesus!_" Jim Kirk wakes with a start, adrenaline screaming through his veins and his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He extracts a trembling hand from where it has become tangled in his sheets and passes it across his eyes. His skin is clammy with cold sweat. "Lights, twenty percent," he gasps into the darkness.

The computer obediently brightens the overhead lights to reveal the familiar chaos of his quarters on the _Enterprise_. Kirk disentangles his limbs from the twisted sheets and hauls himself into a sitting position, panting slightly. His still-tender abdominal muscles protest the motion. His skin prickles as the room's cool air begins to dry the sweat soaking his body. He leans back against the bulkhead and forces himself to take a slow, deep breath.

Chekov is alive, emaciated by his ordeal and bored out of his teenage mind with Sickbay, but very much alive. Bones is alive too, probably snoring away in his quarters unless he was having the dreams again too. Spock is alive and unharmed. Kirk doesn't know if he dreams. They are all safe on the _Enterprise_ and well within Federation space. They will not return to Janusia.

The captain sighs and glances at the luminescent display of his bedside chrono. 0407. He has to be on duty in a few hours, and he was hoping for some solid rack time before facing up to the challenges of command again. Unfortunately the trauma of this most recent nightmare is too fresh to allow him to return to sleep before then. Kirk drags himself out of bed. He locates a shirt in the dim light and hauls it on, wincing slightly as his abdominal muscles twinge again.

Jim pads barefoot into the hall (regulations be damned, it's _his_ ship), squinting in the harsh lights. The gleaming floor is refreshingly cool against his feet, and the omnipresent soft hum of the impulse engines is soothing as he paces through the familiar corridors until he reaches the observation deck. Besides the bridge, this is his favorite place on the ship. The observation deck is normally a popular place for both the officers and crew to relax, but it is completely deserted at this hour. He settles on a padded bench near one of the large windows and looks out into space.

The metallic bauble of Space Station J6 seems to revolve slowly as the _Enterprise_ follows her proscribed orbit, surrounded by twinkling stars. This deep in space, in hard vacuum, the stars should not be twinkling. Jim knows that this twinkling is a trick of waste gases exuded by the station and the _Enterprise's _thrusters distorting their light, but there is still something reassuring about the glimmer of the stars. He shifts slightly, leaning against the back of the bench. The stars all look so peaceful from a distance; their violent surfaces blurred by hundreds or thousands of parsecs.

One of those deceptively peaceful stars surrounded by lazily revolving planets is Janus Gamma, the home star of the Janusia system. Kirk feels a chill run down his spine as his eyes pick the faint white dot of the star out of its parent constellation. Four of them managed to escape that hell; the fifth would never return. The Janusians denied until the very last that they had anything to do with the kidnapping, the death of Lt. Riccardo Giacomo, or the attempted murders of Pavel Chekov and James Kirk. Even after their crimes had been exposed by Spock's deluge of evidence, they still refused to return Giacomo's body.

Kirk sighs and runs a hand through his tousled hair. He had been unconscious in Sickbay when Scotty, as acting captain, commed the lieutenant's widow. McCoy had flatly refused to let him make the call. Kirk felt terrible that he had not been able to do it himself, and his guilt was compounded by the fact that they would have nothing to return to her in the end.

By the time he notices Spock's presence, the _Enterprise _has completed another orbit and Janus Gamma is obscured by the body of Station J6. "Captain," the Vulcan states from over his shoulder.

Kirk glances back at the first officer. "It's four in the morning, Spock, and we're not on duty."

Spock chooses to ignore the rebuke. "I was not expecting to find anyone here at this hour."

"Yeah, neither was I," Kirk replies. He gestures to a place on the bench next to him. The Vulcan stiffly takes a seat, his eyes in space. "What's on your mind, Spock?"

"As a Vulcan, I am accustomed to rising early," Spock says. There is a hint of defensiveness about his words. He has recovered from his own ordeal on Janusia and the resulting altered brain chemistry, but Kirk can sense a faint note of vulnerability about him. "I occasionally come here to meditate."

_Meditate my ass. _Kirk suspects Spock has not meditated once since returning from Janusia, but that was none of his business. He shoots the Vulcan a pointed look. "You're in full uniform, and like I said, it's _four in the morning_. What's on your mind?"

"I could ask you the same question, Captain," Spock says evasively.

Kirk scowls. He is not in the mood for word games. "I had a nightmare we were back on Janusia. Chekov was dead. She killed Bones in front of me."

Spock understood who _she_ was. His demeanor softens slightly. "I was unable to sleep and I did not wish to disturb Lieutenant Uhura," he admits. "I…have had difficulty resting since we returned. My mind has been troubled of late."

"Nightmares?" Kirk asks curiously. Better to focus on someone else's problems than his own.

"Not precisely, Captain." Spock's quick dark eyes are never still; Kirk notices they systematically trace through the local constellations. He is clearly troubled about something. "It is a problem of a more…existential nature."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly," Spock replies, but he cannot hide a note of resignation in his voice. The corner of Kirk's mouth twitches slightly in amusement. They sit in silence for a few moments before Spock manages to work up the nerve. Finally, he says, "I am unaccustomed to regarding my Vulcan heritage as a weakness."

"Weakness?" Kirk asks, confused by this unexpected admission. He knew Spock had fully embraced his Vulcan ancestry from an early age. The vast majority of the crew (himself included) thought of him as Vulcan, rather than half-Vulcan. Spock was proud to be Vulcan, though he would vehemently deny having feelings of pride.

"I was targeted by the Janusians because of my Vulcan heritage," Spock starts, and Jim suddenly understands. "They exploited my Vulcan flaws quite efficiently—"

Kirk interrupts him. "The Janusians exploited _everyone's_ flaws efficiently, Spock."

Spock's mouth presses into a thin line. "Indeed."

"But the thing is, they aren't flaws," Kirk explains. He's had plenty of time between Janusia and Sickbay to reflect upon Lilith and her terrible machinations.

"I must disagree—"

"Do you want to know what I think or not?"

"Jim, you will tell me regardless of my opinion on the matter," Spock retorts dryly.

Kirk chuckles. "Look, I don't think being part Vulcan is a weakness at all. I think you're just not used to seeing your human heritage as a strength."

Spock attempts to look impassive. "Explain."

Kirk looks at him thoughtfully. "Being part human has always been a problem for you, Spock. I've been in your head, remember? So on Janusia, they target you because you look Vulcan and they have ways for…dealing with Vulcans. And suddenly being _Vulcan _is a problem."

"Your point, Captain?" Spock interrupts, sounding nettled.

"The point is, Spock, you're half human. Whatever they did couldn't work because you're not fully Vulcan."

"It was still effective-"

"Effective, maybe, but not _successful_. No, let me finish. You blew up and let off some steam. Would a full-blooded Vulcan have been able to do that?"

Spock flexes his stiff right hand, the hand that had been mangled against the stone wall. "No."

"Likewise, would a human have been strong enough to overpower that guard so we could escape?"

"I do not believe so," Spock replies guardedly, but there is thought behind his words.

"Look, by your reasoning, caring about my crew, my friends, is what got us into that mess. She thought it was a weakness. But what Lilith didn't understand was that caring about you guys is what gave me the strength to get us out. None of it is inherently a strength or a weakness, it's all in how you look at it." Kirk shrugs. "Vulcan, human, whatever. You are what you are, Spock, and if you'd been any different, we'd be having a _very_ different conversation."

"Indeed," the Vulcan agrees dryly. "I failed to consider the…problem in that light. Your conclusions are quite logical. I thank you for your assistance."

Kirk half-smiles. "No problem, Spock."

It feels very good to be back in uniform, Kirk decides in the turbolift, with his silver captain's rings around his cuffs, his face clean-shaven, and his hair neatly combed. The door has hardly opened when he is greeted with by chorus of "Captain!" and "good morning, sir!"

Kirk acknowledges them with a wave and strides onto the bridge for the first time in almost two weeks, grinning widely. "Thanks everyone, it's good to be back."

The bridge is reassuringly familiar, with everyone at his or her accustomed post. He nods to Spock and winks at Lt. Uhura as he passes her station. She rolls her eyes, but she can't hide a smile. The only major change is Lt. Kevin Riley at the nav console instead of Chekov. Bones had assured him Chekov would be fit for duty in the next week or two, but it was still weird seeing Riley's reddish hair and freckly neck beside Lt. Sulu at the helm.

Lt. Cmdr. Scott immediately vacates the captain's chair as Kirk approaches. His grin is nearly as wide as Jim's. "So eager to leave, Scotty?" Kirk teases. "I bet Doctor McCoy would be glad to arrange another day off-duty for me…"

Scott is halfway to the turbolift before he replies. "T' be quite honest, sir, I'm quite keen t' get back in mah engine room!"

Kirk laughs as the engineer disappears into the turbolift and drops into the captain's chair with unrepentant joy. He nods at Dr. McCoy, who has ostensibly appeared on the bridge to make a report about Chekov. Really he is there to keep an eye on Jim, who has promised to stick to light duty and not work over his allotted shifts. Kirk thought he was being ridiculous (seriously, how hard was sitting in a chair?) but Bones would not be dissuaded.

"Report, Mr. Spock?" Kirk asks, easily falling back into his old routine.

Spock immediately looks up from his post at the main science station. "The situation with Janusia has been formally resolved. The Federation has voted to reject their entry petition, on grounds of bribery. Admiral Pike reports several high level ministers are currently under investigation for their sudden acquisition of lucrative dilithium mining tracts on Janusia. He assures me that 'heads will roll'. Moreover, the Janusia system has been declared extremely hazardous and off-limits to both Starfleet and civilian traffic."

"Great," Kirk observes with obvious relief. "I'm glad to hear it."

To his amusement, Spock cannot resist adding: "Your…testimony, sir, was integral in obtaining the travel ban."

McCoy scowls deeply. Kirk swears he can hear the doctor's teeth grinding. Chuckling, he swivels to look at Lt. Uhura. "What's the latest from Starfleet, Lieutenant?" the captain asks her.

"New orders just came through, sir. We've been ordered to escort a Federation convoy from Starbase 16 to the colony on Greshna Omicron."

"Escort duty?" Kirk complains, swiveling around and making a face at Spock. "_Escort duty_?"

"And what's wrong with escort duty?" Bones grumbles from over his shoulder.

Kirk glances up at him. "Nothing, other than it's boring as hell."

"That's _not_ a bad thing, Jim!"

"There's more, sir," Uhura interrupts, the roll of her eyes practically audible. She pauses to listen to the transmission. "Two Klingon birds-of-prey are reported to be harassing Federation ships in the area. We are to track these ships and respond if necessary, Captain. They are sending us their last known coordinates now."

"Klingons," Kirk grins. "That's more like it."

McCoy groans. Spock raises an eyebrow. Kirk laughs.

"Coordinates received, sir," Lt. Riley pipes up from the navigator's post.

Kirk is immediately all business again. "Lay in a course, Mr. Riley. Mr. Sulu, take us out of orbit."

The helmsman's fingers fly eagerly across his console. "Aye, sir!"

"Course laid in, sir," says Riley.

"Ready for warp, Captain."

Kirk steals a quick look around the bridge. Somehow it felt almost like he had never left. Everyone (even Bones, no matter how much he might complain), is eager to begin this new mission. He looks out into the stars, his eyes resting momentarily on a certain distant white star. He will never forget what happened on Janusia, but neither will he dwell on it. Especially not with marauding Klingons to deal with. Kirk smiles and leans back in the captain's chair.

"Punch it, Mr. Sulu."

* * *

_Well, that's all, folks! Please review; I'm particularly keen to find out how you guys like the ending! :) _


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